


Young and Beautiful

by nothingamonth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, Brainwashing, Butt Plugs, Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, Dubious Consent, Family Drama, Hallucinogens, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Personalities, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rimming, S&M, Spanking, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingamonth/pseuds/nothingamonth
Summary: When Steve was kidnapped outside the hospital where he worked and brought to a filthy cell with orders to take care of what was inside, he didn't expect to find a best friend.Trained by his mother, a nurse, and his father, a marine, Steve is more or less equipped to keep up with the Winter Soldier. And besides, being on the run is kind of fun...





	1. Chapter 1

1992

Steve Rogers glared defiantly up at the armed guards that had kidnapped him before stomping into the room where they led him. He'd been finishing a double shift at the hospital when a black van had rolled up on him--something he thought only happened in movies. He thought for sure they were going to just murder him, but instead they took him here, to this underground bunker. Ostensibly, he was supposed to care for a patient--at least that was what he gathered from the Russian-garbled English they shouted at him.

There was a man with long, dark hair curled up in the corner. He was completely naked and covered in bruises. When Steve stepped inside, the man looked up. His eyes were big, blue, and wary. The door was shut and locked behind him.

The man didn't exactly look dangerous, really more pathetic than anything, but in his three years as a nurse, he'd learned not to underestimate anyone. Especially when he stood at five and a half feet and weighed maybe a hundred pounds after a good meal. He'd had the shit kicked out of him by old women on a morphine drip.

"Hey, sweetheart, not feeling well?" he asked softly, making no move towards him yet. There was a shelf of medical supplies on the wall, but he didn't reach for them. It was more important to put his patient at ease. The way the man looked at him, his eyes so vulnerable and lost, made Steve think of a scared child. He didn't know what the hell was going on here, but he didn't think it was this guy's fault.

"My name is Steve. What's your name?" he asked, stepping a little closer. He hunkered down so that he was on the same level as his patient. The man looked at him in confusion.

"Don't you have a name?"

The brunet slowly shook his head.

"That's okay, sweetheart. It looks like you're hurt. I'm a nurse. I can help you," Steve replied. He sat down next to the man and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The man's left arm shot out and grabbed his wrist. Steve blinked. His left arm was entirely metal. He took a deep breath and laid his hand on the prosthetic wrist. "I can help you," he repeated.

The man let him go.

"Thank you," Steve said and smoothed his hair back. The man closed his eyes and let Steve pet and stroke him. In that way, he reacted more like a whipped dog than a person. Steve's heart broke a little more for him. "You're a handsome guy, you know? Can you show me where it hurts?"

The man shifted out of the fetal position and held out his right arm, which was obviously broken.

"Poor guy," Steve said. "I'm gonna set it for you, alright?" He took the man's hand, braced himself against his bicep, and pulled. Steve felt the bone grind and shift as he set it right. The whole time the man never made a sound.

"I'm sorry about that. You held up like a champ, though." Steve chuckled and wiped the sweat from his brow. There was nothing in the room he could use as a splint, but he bound it tightly with bandages.

"Where else?" he asked.

The man pointed to each cut and scrape until Steve had cleaned and patched each one.

"What else, sweetheart?" Steve's voice was soft. He didn't know how this man got so hurt or why he wasn't clothed or speaking, but his heart went out to him. Steve patted his cheek, and the man threw his arms around him and hugged him close.

"Okay. If that's what you need," Steve said, running his hand over the other's filthy hair.

He was in the man's arms for about twenty seconds before the guards burst in. The man shoved Steve between himself and the wall, his metal arm shielding him from the men with guns.

"Come on, boy," the guard snapped in a thick Russian accent.

"I'm twenty-five!" Steve snapped. And he wasn't about to step over the man with a cybernetic fucking arm, thanks.

Steve's patient spoke for the first time since he came, and it was in Russian. The guard said something in response, but the man shook his head and put his arms around Steve again.

The guard snorted and laughed. "He wants to keep you. You're the bitch's bitch now. He will kill you in time. It would have been less painful with us." And he shrugged.

Steve looked at his patient's profile. He had no idea what was going on, but his mother taught him to keep a calm head in any situation. He didn't think she imagined a situation where he'd end up as Koko's kitten, though.

The man was visibly upset, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists. Steve went back to petting his hair. "Shh, it's okay. I guess you don't speak English, huh?"

"Yes, I do," he said slowly, like he was struggling with the words.

"Oh. What is this place? Who are you?"

The man shrugged.

"You really don't have a name?"

"I don't remember."

Steve smiled gently and rubbed the back of the man's neck. "That's okay. Do you want me to wash your hair?"

The man nodded.

Steve got to his feet and filled a basin with water. He brought it over to where the man sat and rearranged him so that he was leaning back over it. Cup after cup of water rinsed most of the dirt and glass from the long, dark strands. Then Steve worked shampoo into his scalp.

"You have really pretty hair," Steve said.

"You're really pretty," the man replied.

He blushed. This kept getting weirder. "Thank you. I can't keep calling you 'the man,' so how about I call you Bucky?"

"Bucky."

"It's the name of my stuffed bear from when I was a kid," Steve laughed, rinsing the last of the shampoo out of his hair. He dried it with a towel and quickly braided it. As soon as Steve finished, he was pulled into Bucky's arms.

"What's going on?"

Bucky clutched him hard with his metal arm. "I knew the man they made me kill. I knew him," he muttered.

Steve's mouth went dry. "Oh," he replied. "Is that why you're hurt?"

Bucky's eyebrows came down. "I didn't want them to touch me. I didn't--I knew him!"

"It's okay, sweetheart."

The brunet curled himself around Steve and grabbed a blanket from underneath them. He wrapped it around both of them.

"I'm--Just because I'm small doesn't mean you have to take care of me. I'm here to take care of you," Steve pointed out. Bucky gave him a look and settled his head on Steve's chest, determined, it seemed, to go to sleep. Despite being exhausted too, Steve wasn't about to fall asleep in a barren, filthy room in an underground bunker with a man who didn't know his name.

He wasn't about to pull away, either. After all, Koko killed her kitten.

* * *

 

And yet, Steve woke sometime later to gentle pats on the cheek. He was next aware of an urgent need to urinate and what would become crippling pain in his head, back, and chest. It had probably been more than twenty-four hours since he had any of his medication.

Bucky stared down at him. At some point, they had shifted so that Steve was cradled in his lap. He could feel--well, he could feel a lot through the thin fabric of his boxers and scrubs.

"Did you need something?" Steve asked him, wondering if this was finally how he died. A million childhood illnesses and this was how it ended. Ironic.

But Bucky's eyes showed more concern than anything. "You're sick," he simply replied.

"Yeah. Congenital heart defect. I take medication for it."

Bucky looked at the shelf of meager medical supplies.

"No, nothing we've got here, Buck. Don't worry. It'll take me a while to just keel over and die."

Steve struggled to his feet and the naked man jumped up after him, following him closely as he went to the toilet.

"Um, a little privacy would be nice," Steve said as pleasantly as possible. If Bucky understood the request, he did not grant it. Steve sighed and pulled his scrubs down low enough to free himself from his underwear. Bucky looked at him curiously before averting his eyes. If Steve was not mistaken, there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

"Cute," he murmured.

"Hey, you may be some kind of super-powered robotic assassin, but I'll still kick your ass," Steve snapped.

Bucky actually laughed, which startled Steve so badly he peed all over his hands. Bucky was cute when he smiled--actually, he was gorgeous. His eyes sort of crinkled in the corners, and his teeth were white and straight. Steve stared stupidly for a second before adjusting his clothes and washing his hands in the sink.

"Anyways, how are you? Your arm?" he asked, trying to grasp at the remaining shreds of his dignity.

Bucky glanced down at one of the many bandages covering his body and pulled it off. The cut underneath was completely healed; new, pink skin had already formed underneath.

"Oh," Steve said. He helped Bucky with the rest of the bandages, running his hand over the exposed flesh. The brunet practically purred, but Steve was too astounded to notice.

"And what about your arm?" he asked, prodding at the break gently. Bucky hissed, but didn't pull away.

"Still hurts, huh? Well, if your skin heals that quickly, I'm sure this'll be fine soon."

"No," Bucky said.

"No?"

"If it heals, they'll put me back in the cold."

"Ah. Okay," Steve replied. Whatever that meant. The pounding between his ears reached a high point, reminding him how high his blood pressure must be. He went back over to the blanket and sat down. Bucky followed. He hunkered down next to him and stared.

"You're sick," he said again.

"I know."

Bucky lifted Steve's chin with two of his metal fingers and studied his face. Steve felt his cheeks redden.

"Tell me what you need," the brunet demanded.

"Propranolol. Chlorothiazide." He mumbled the names of his most important medications, all but hypnotized by the stormy blue of Bucky's eyes.

"Okay." He smiled at Steve again. "You rest, sugar. I'll be back."

Steve blinked. First of all, "sugar"? Secondly, where did he think he was going in a locked room?

He quickly found out. Bucky slammed the door with his metal shoulder, which made a hideous shrieking sound and scraped a chunk of paint from the door.

"Stop! You'll hurt yourself!" Steve clambered to his feet and saw dark spots in his vision. Bucky went over to him, steadied him by the shoulders, and settled him back down on the blanket.

"Stay, Steve," he commanded. He went back over to the door and hit it again. This time, it groaned on its hinges. The third time it fell to the floor with a clatter. Steve put his hands over his ears and watched as Bucky took out two guards at once. Then he ran away, muttering, "Propranolol, chlorothiazide."

Steve went over to the most likely dead guards and disarmed them. He unloaded one gun and emptied the clip into his pocket, including the chambered round. The other he kept loaded.

His father, Joseph, had been a lifer in the Marine Corps before he died. Although his son couldn't follow in his exact footsteps, he taught Steve everything he knew. Perhaps that was why Steve had gravitated to the VA hospital after he graduated. Fat lot of good it did him, getting kidnapped and all.

Steve was searching the bodies for knives and extra rounds when Bucky returned. His face was splattered with blood, but he was wearing clothes. They looked like they'd been scavenged from one of the guards. He looked down at the gun in Steve's hand and gave him an appraising look.

"Here," he said, pushing two bottles into his free hand. Propranolol and chlorothiazide, what do you know? Steve tucked the gun under his arm while he uncapped one. Bucky seemed content to shoot down guards as Steve dry swallowed the medication.

"Thank you," Steve said, shooting out the knee of a man coming up behind the other man. Bucky blinked in surprise.

"I've always been a crack shot," Steve explained. The guard howled as he rocked back and forth; Bucky took a shot and ended it.

The hall outside their cell fell silent. Bucky checked his gun and then waited at attention.

And waited.

Finally Steve cleared his throat. "Maybe we should go now?" he asked.

"Where?" the brunet replied. He had that lost, confused look on his face again.

"Well, to my apartment, first of all."

"Your home," Bucky said slowly.

"Yeah. So I can change clothes and take my other medication."

He was clearly uneasy now. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I escort you there and come back?"

"No, you come with me and stay." Steve took a chance and took Bucky's hand, too. "You said you didn't want to go back in the cold. So come on, sweetheart, my apartment is warm. You can stay as long as you want."

Bucky looked down at their linked hands and frowned. "They won't like it, but I'll go," he finally decided.

"Good, then let's go before one of us gets shot."

* * *

 

Steve could not recall a more awkward train ride home in his life, including the time a drunk woman had taken a dump at the end of the car. He did his best to clean the blood off of Bucky's face and straighten them both out, but it was a lost cause from the beginning.

And it probably wasn't even the fact that they were filthy or that Bucky had numerous weapons hidden on his body. The attention they received was probably a result of how, once they were among people again, Bucky clung to Steve--holding his hand and the back of his shirt, or resting his head on his chest. Old women were giving them disapproving looks, and one man took it upon himself to tell them how AIDS was God's punishment for fags.

Steve almost shot that guy himself.

But they made it home. The first thing he did was feed them both--Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, the specialty of bachelors everywhere. Then he bundled Bucky off into the shower and went to his neighbor's apartment to borrow some clothes for him.

Sam opened his door shirtless, wearing a pair of athletic shorts and nothing else. Steve coughed to hide his embarrassment and averted his eyes.

So he might have a crush on Sam. No big deal, right?

It would probably be less of a deal if he weren't so deep in the closet he was finding Christmas presents.

"Hey, Steve. Uh, rough shift?" he asked, scratching his chest. Steve absolutely did not follow Sam's elegant, long-fingered hand on its path across his warm expanse of skin. Sam just started working as a counselor at the VA after two tours in Desert Storm. They were also, coincidentally, neighbors, and often rode to work together. The long trips on the subway had given them ample opportunity to get to know each other, and Sam was the kind of goodhearted, funny guys that Steve fell head over heels for.

"Uh, yeah. Shifts, actually," he replied.

Sam clicked his tongue. "Man, they got you workin' doubles again? I thought your doctor said--"

"I know, I know, but I agreed. Anyways, I got a favor to ask."

"Ask away," Sam replied. It was a rare day that Steve Rogers asked anything from anyone.

"Can I borrow a set of clothes? The biggest you got." He demonstrated Bucky's approximate dimensions with his arms stretched wide.

"Little weird, but okay. Come in for a second."

Steve followed Sam inside and collapsed onto his cracked leather couch. He ran his hands through his hair while the other man rooted around his dresser. Sam had a lot of posters on his walls. Steve didn't know anything about them. He was the kind of nerd who loved jazz, not rhythm and blues.

"So, what, another homeless guy follow you home?" Sam asked, tossing a plastic bag full of clothes on Steve's lap.

"Kinda?" Steve replied.

"You gotta stop that shit. You act like you're six and a half feet tall and like, a solid two-twenty, but you're not, Steve."

"Yeah, that's becoming more and more clear as the day goes on," Steve said. He pushed himself up off the couch with a groan. "Thanks for these. I'll wash and return 'em soon."

"Just buy drinks next time, man," Sam said, holding out his hand. Steve shook it before heading out. He cast one last wistful look at Sam's naked chest and returned to his own apartment.

Bucky was kneeling naked in front of his stereo, tapping on the little plastic window of the tape deck. Steve softened at the sight of him.

"Want to listen to some music while I take a shower?" he asked.

Bucky looked at him with those big, sad eyes, like he thought Steve was never coming back. The blond came over and chose a Charlie Parker tape. The sound of a wailing trumpet filled the apartment, and Bucky closed his eyes. Steve gently stroked his hair before going into the bathroom.

Bucky followed him.

Steve remembered what he thought of privacy so he didn't bother asking him to leave. He peeled his filthy scrubs off and threw them in his hamper. Bucky sat down on the toilet while Steve showered. "There's clothes for you in that bag on the couch. I'll be right out," Steve assured him. He could practically hear Bucky deliberate before getting up.

As promised, Steve stepped out a moment later in a towel. Bucky was fastening the button of Sam's acid-washed jeans, but they were a bit snug. Steve could tell, because Sam had also given him a GUESS half-shirt. Somehow, Bucky's midriff looked even better when framed by clothes.

It felt wrong to look at Bucky in a sexual way, so Steve averted his eyes. "I'll get dressed and then I'll brush your hair, okay, sweetheart?" He turned into his bedroom.

And Bucky followed him.

Steve dressed quickly in clothes that were his, but still two sizes too big. He could never find anything his size. Pushing the sleeves of his long t-shirt up, he grabbed a comb from the bathroom and sat Bucky down on the floor in front of the couch. Charlie Parker's trumpet sobbed over the stereo as Steve started working on the knots in Bucky's hair. It was fashionably long, but Steve didn't think it was intentional.

Who was this guy? Why had he been in that cell? How could he heal so quickly?

By the time Steve had all the rats and snarls out of Bucky's hair, the tape flipped over and the brunet was snoring against his knees. Sighing, Steve just joined him on the floor and put his head in Bucky's lap. The man put his hand on top of Steve's hair.

"I remember this song," Bucky murmured.

"You've heard it before?" Steve asked, nuzzling the other man's thigh. He smelled like Sam's cologne.

"In a club somewhere," Bucky confirmed. He stroked Steve's hair. The blond was trying to focus on Bucky's few and seldom words--really, he was--but Steve found his eyelids drooping the longer Bucky toyed with his hair.

He woke in his bed, tucked in neat and tight. Steve's heart was in his throat from some half-remembered nightmare.

"Bucky?"

Steve padded into the other room and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He found Bucky sitting by the window, staring at the door.

"Is everything okay?" Steve asked. Having Bucky around was akin to having a dog, he thought, for all the response that he got. Then someone knocked.

Bucky drew a gun from who knows where (really, he was wearing half a shirt and skintight jeans) and cocked it in one smooth motion. Steve jumped in front of it and cried, "No! Wait! Christ!"

Sam entered at the sound of Steve's voice. "Jesus!" he yelled, holding his hands up. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing, Sam." Steve went over to Bucky and put his hand over the top of the gun so he couldn't fire without hurting him. He cupped Bucky's cheek in the other hand. "Hey, hey. Look at me, sweetheart. It's just my neighbor, okay? You're wearing his clothes. Please don't hurt him."

Bucky glanced away from Sam briefly. Then again. The third time, his eyes caught and held Steve's. He lowered the gun.

"Good. Thank you. Your hair looks really nice all clean."

"Should I go?" Sam asked, looking between them. Steve turned to him to tell him everything was fine, but Bucky grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and drew him down into a bruising kiss.

Steve froze. Bucky pulled him into his lap with one arm, broke the kiss, and nuzzled Steve's cheek.

"Steve! I didn't know you had a--a thing," Sam stammered.

"I don't," Steve replied, blushing furiously, "I don't think." He tried to pull away, but Bucky wouldn't let him. Bucky set his gun down and cupped the back of his neck, kissing his way down Steve's jawline.

"Buck, stop! We have a guest!"

Bucky pulled back and regarded him warmly. He kissed his chin and set him down.

"What is this?" Sam asked. His brow was arched so high it was almost at his hairline.

"It's--it's a really long story. What do you need?" Steve asked, hitching his shoulders up around his ears. He ran both hands through his hair in a nervous gesture.

"I just wanted to see if you're feeling better."

"I'm fine. Like I said, it's a long story. I'll tell you later, maybe?"

"Sure thing." Sam gave him another look before leaving and closing the door behind him.

"Steve," Bucky said, trying to recapture his attention. He plucked at the hem of the smaller man's shirt until he turned around to face him.

"Bucky," he replied, putting his hands on his shoulders. Bucky looked up at him, eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Listen to me closely, sweetheart. I don't--"

More knocking. Steve groaned in frustration. This was hard enough as it is. "Sam! Please, another time!"

The door opened, but it wasn't Sam. It was about four men in the same uniform as the guards in the bunker. Bucky pushed Steve to the floor behind him and grabbed the gun. The blasts were deafening loud in the small space. Steve got his feet underneath him and went for the bedroom.

Steve found the gun he stole earlier and cocked it. Shit, he wasn't even wearing shoes! Bucky came in after him, dropping the clip out of his gun.

"We need more bullets," he said.

"More in the top drawer of the dresser," Steve replied, shoving his feet into a pair of sloppy Converse sneakers. Bucky, all business now, reloaded his gun and looked down at his clothes for the first time.

"Impractical," he decided.

Steve tossed him a worn backpack. "Put what you need in that. I'm gonna grab my medication."

A part of him wondered what the fuck he thought he was doing. He had a job--a good job--and friends and a life... But on the other hand, helping Bucky seemed like exactly what he ought to be doing. Like everything he'd learned and studied had been leading to this point.

He dumped his array of meds into a ziploc bag and returned to the bedroom. He threw them on top of the boxes of ammo in the bag.

"We'll cash out my bank account at the nearest ATM and dump the card. Should have enough to get us a ways out of the city," Steve announced.

Bucky slung the backpack over his shoulder and took Steve's hand. "You are the only person I ever remember being kind to me. I'll protect you, no matter what."

"My mother and father taught me how to take care of myself, but I appreciate the help," Steve said with a smile, tucking the gun into his waistband and covering it with his shirt.

"A fella could fall in love with that smile, sugar," Bucky said quietly. He had flashes where he was almost like a normal person, but they were fleeting.

"You sound like the old guys I clean up after at work," Steve replied, and pulled him out of the apartment.

He might have been having a little too much fun, all things considered.

Bucky sat close to him on the greyhound bus headed for Wichita, Kansas. Steve settled in for a long ride, even though it was hard to get comfortable with a gun digging into the small of his back.

"You ever been to the Midwest?" Steve asked the other man. He had family there that he had met once or twice. His mother rarely talked about Joseph's brother, Robin. Steve had gathered, the older he got, that Robin had gotten mixed up with the mob.

"I don't know," Bucky said vaguely, staring at the window and his own reflection. "I think so."

"I haven't. I've never been anywhere but Brooklyn. I'm kinda excited."

"I don't think there's much there to get excited about," Bucky replied, closing his eyes. "Buncha dust. Farms. Bratty kid sisters."

"You have sisters?"

Bucky's eyes snapped open, realizing what he just said. "Yeah. Becks. Becca, I mean."

"That's great, Buck. Maybe she still lives there." Not, of course, that Steve harbored much hope of finding her when they didn't even know Bucky's real name. Or anything else about him. Christ, poor guy.

"The longer I'm out of the cold, the more I remember," he muttered, running his hand over a stubbly cheek.

"What did you mean by that, the cold?" Steve asked.

"The cold. They kept me frozen when they didn't need me," Bucky explained, as if this were a common occurrence.

"What, like in _2001: A Space Odyssey_?"

Bucky stared at him blankly.

"It's a movie."

"Oh. Sounds interesting."

"So when were you born?"

The brunet shrugged.

"What's the last thing you remember before the cold?" Steve asked.

"A blue coat."

It was Steve's turn to stare.

"I really liked it. It was a lot warmer than the standard issue," Bucky explained. He looked down at his bare midriff and frowned. Steve turned the statement over in his head as the bus went over the Brooklyn Bridge.

Standard issue. "You were in the military. You speak Russian, but you have a sister in the Midwestern United States. You were stationed somewhere cold before you got frozen."

Steve went through the list of armed conflicts involving the US in his head. Vietnam was out, Korea was possible, but the way Bucky talked--calling him "sugar," like the old men at the VA--it had to be World War II, didn't it?

Bucky waited.

"You fought in World War II. Jesus, you've got to be at least seventy years old!"

"Sounds right," Bucky agreed automatically, disinterested. He dug through their backpack and pulled out Steve's Walkman. "What's this?" he asked.

"It plays music. Here," he said, and put the headphones over Bucky's ears. Distractedly, he pulled a tape from the bag, popped it in, and turned it on for him. Bucky startled, gray eyes popping, and then he calmed. After a moment, he closed his eyes. Steve brooded against the window.

Again, he wondered how any of this could be possible. The man with fantastic abs sitting next to him was old enough to be his grandfather. He had a robotic arm and, in Steve's presence alone, had killed at least six people. Currently, he was swaying back and forth in his seat, bebopping to Duke Ellington. And Steve had run away with him.

On impulse, Steve leaned across his armrest and kissed Bucky's cheek. The man stopped grooving and looked at him.

And kissed him back.

On a greyhound bus.

Going to Kansas.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the bus arrived in Wichita, Steve left a message on Sam's answering machine to tell him that he was okay and sorry about the dead Russians cluttering the hallway. Next, he took himself and Bucky to the library.

On the bus, after their kiss, Steve explained why some guys a few rows up threw popcorn at them--that men expressing romantic feelings for each other in public wasn't looked too keenly on. Bucky had shrugged and said, "I know that, but what are they going to do to me? My question is, why do you care? Just shoot 'em."

"Waste of bullets," Steve had replied, but it got him thinking. Why was he so deep in the closet? Why did he care?

They stopped at a McDonald's, and Steve had delighted in watching Bucky's near orgasmic pleasure over the crappy burgers and fries. He was less delighted when he threw it up an hour later.

At the library, Bucky wandered off to the science fiction section while Steve delved into the archives. It was a long shot that someone would have written about Bucky during a World War, let alone published a photograph, but he had to try. He had no other leads.

The bus had not been conducive to good sleep. Steve had been happy to rest against Bucky's shoulder, but he couldn't let his guard down. But now, surrounded by musty books in a quiet, back corner of the library, Steve found his eyelids drooping. He flipped from April of 1943 to October of 1944. Bucky remembered cold, so Steve assumed that whatever had happened to him, happened in the winter.

His thoughts drifted back to Bucky. God, he was beautiful. The way his eyes shone when he smiled, the quiet humor about him, sharp wit.

Juicy thighs.

Steve's face hit the bound newspaper when he fell asleep.

Bucky found him an hour later, his finger stuck in a copy of _2001: A Space Odyssey_. He'd always liked sci-fi.

He considered Steve's little sleeping body. The blond was adorable, and he wanted him so badly--more than he remembered wanting anything. Steve had instantly accepted him and cared for him. Steve made him feel safe. Steve made him remember being something other than--this. A person.

Bucky reached out and brushed a few strands of hair out of Steve's face. And what a handsome, pretty face it was: full, pink lips, pale skin dusted with freckles, clear blue eyes fringed with dark lashes. His clothes were too big, and the collar of his t-shirt exposed the knob of his spine and the sharp line of his clavicle. But despite how scrawny he was, he was dangerous. Bucky had gotten hard watching him take out that Russian. He was hard thinking about it now.

And even weirder, Steve seemed to enjoy his company, too--though he was a bit skittish.

Bucky leaned down and kissed the top of Steve's head. He ached to touch him more, but didn't dare. Steve stirred and looked up. His smile was beatific.

"Hey, Buck," he said, "musta fallen asleep. I'm sorry. I haven't found anything yet." Steve stretched and his t-shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of skin dusted with golden hair. Bucky's mouth went dry.

"It's okay. Maybe we find a place to sleep?" he asked.

"Maybe we should. I'll call my uncle." Steve got to his feet, coming maybe to Bucky's shoulder. Generously. He patted the brunet's chest as he slipped past him.

Bucky glanced down at the book he'd been reading. A grainy photograph of a young soldier stared back at him: Sergeant James Barnes, listed MIA in Azzano, Italy.

Bucky didn't recognize him, and followed Steve.

"--a friend and I are in town. It'd be great to be able to see you--" Steve said into the phone. Tension was written into his frame. Bucky didn't have to see his face to know his brow was furrowed and that he was sticking his lower lip out in a pout.

"We're at the library," he said. Bucky came up behind him and nuzzled the back of his neck. Steve reached over his shoulder and took Bucky's hand.

"Great. See you soon." He turned to the other man with a look on his face.

"What's the matter?" the brunet asked. "Don't get along with your family?" He vaguely recalled some tension in his family, but couldn't remember why. It had something to do with the way he looked, the darkness of his skin and hair.

"I had ta look 'em up in the phone book, Buck. I dunno if we get along or not. But I think we should get you different clothes."

Impractical use of limited funds, but he wouldn't argue. The tightness of his jeans restricted motion and limited concealed arms. Also, if he kept them on much longer, he wasn't gonna be able to have kids.

Wal-Mart was a trip for Bucky. The harsh fluorescent light made even Steve look washed out and sick. They picked out new, roomier clothing (while Steve muttered something about grunge) and checked out at the cigarette register. Bucky saw a reproduction of a 1940s Lucky Strike ad.

"Can I get a pack of those?" he asked the cashier.

The cashier put them down next to the Faded Glory jeans, Wrangler flannel, and Hanes t-shirts.

"You shouldn't smoke," Steve grumbled.

"Why?" Bucky asked, gathering their bags as Steve paid.

"It causes cancer, for one," the blond replied. It was his turn to follow Bucky out.

"Christ, it ain't gonna kill me, honey." Bucky opened the pack and put one of the unfiltered cigs between his lips. He lit it with a match he got at a rest stop.

Oh Lord. It was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. Better than McDonald's. He stopped in the middle of the parking lot just to revel in the feeling of nicotine rushing through his veins.

Steve took his arm and led him on. "My aunt Debbie says that my cousin John is staying with them. He's--different," he said.

"Different like you?" Bucky asked, taking another delectable lungful of Lucky Strike.

"How do you mean?"

"You know. Swishy."

Steve's brows came down. "I'm not--Buck, that's rude."

He shrugged. "You like me. You're a swish."

Steve shoved him. "Then so are you!"

Bucky grinned and slung his arm around his shoulders. "Never denied it."

"I'm glad you've recovered your sense of humor." Steve shoved him again, playfully this time. Bucky grabbed at him, but the blond darted away with a laugh. An impromptu game of tag commenced--Bucky let him escape a time or two before wrapping his arms around Steve's middle and lifting him up. He threw him over his shoulder despite his laughter and protests.

"Set me down, Buck! We gotta catch a cab!"

Bucky set him down once they were on the sidewalk and smoothed Steve's hair. Steve grinned up at him, but after a moment, he faltered and averted his eyes.

"I don't know if I'm a--if I'm gay," he said.

"That's a lie," Bucky told him, tweaking his nose, "but if you wanna play that game, we'll play."

Steve heaved a huge sigh and put his hands on his slim hips.

Bucky changed in the back of the cab. He felt a lot more comfortable in the loose jeans and a t-shirt. The redheaded cab driver glared at him in the rearview mirror when he took his pants off, but the metal arm must have deterred him from saying anything.

As he studied Steve's profile, limned as it was in the afternoon sunshine, Bucky remembered glimpses from a previous life: another petite blond man by a fireplace, the taste of cigarettes and cheap champagne on his lips when Bucky kissed him, two flesh and blood hands on his hips when he took him from behind.

Bucky must have had a type, and Steve Rogers was it. But who was the other blond? Who was he?

When was he?

What year was it now...?

Howard had been old, so so old; Bucky almost hadn't recognized him but then he'd screamed JAMES and that was his name--people had called him James, Sergeant James Bar--

Steve laid a hand on his shoulder. "Bucky, sweetheart, let go of the door. Let go of the door--you're about to rip it off--"

Bucky released the door handle with a gasp. He'd been holding his breath, so he forced himself to fill his lungs again. Steve was rubbing his thigh, anchoring him to the present.

"Hey, calm the fuck down before I kick you the fuck out!" the cab driver shouted. Bucky went for the gun Steve had tucked in the back of his jeans, but the little blond fended him off.

"What happened, Buck?" he asked, slapping his hands away.

"My name is James," he panted. "Sergeant James Barnes, 107th Infantry, 32557038. Sergeant James Barnes, 107th Infantry, 3255--"

The cab lurched to a halt. "Buddy, if you can't get your friend under control--"

"--7038. Sergeant James Barnes, 107th Infantry, 32557038. Sergeant James--"

Memories of a factory, the cold, pain, pain, never ending fucking pain--

"Both of you get out!"

"--BARNES, 107TH INFANTRY, 32557038--"

Steve pushed Bucky out of the car with his feet and followed after him. The brunet stumbled onto the curb, clutching his hair. Steve went with him as he sank onto the sidewalk and the cab pulled off. He was whispering soothing things into his ear and petting his hair, occasionally pressing kisses onto his sweaty forehead.

"It'll be okay, sweetheart. I'm sorry I called you the wrong name. It'll be okay."

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's not the wrong name. I like being your Bucky. I--I just--"

"It's okay. I've seen it before. You had a flashback, like a panic attack, kind of. You'll be alright. Just breathe."

Bucky lifted his head and met Steve's eyes. Slowly, their breathing fell into sync. His heart started to cease its racing. "I killed Howard. I killed his wife. He knew me. James Barnes, that's what he called me. What year is it?"

"1992," Steve replied.

"Okay. Okay," he sighed. "I did it. I killed them."

"It wasn't you. That person I met in that cell, that wasn't a man. It wasn't you."

"I still did it," Bucky replied with a wry smile. "I'm sorry I got us kicked out of the cab."

"We can walk from here. Now we know who you are, Buck, and we can start figuring this out," Steve said. He hadn't stopped stroking his hair. "Are you sure it's okay to call you Bucky?"

"I feel more like Bucky than whoever James Barnes was. I only remember glimpses. Another blond, someplace else, a cold factory..."

"It's okay. C'mon. Can you walk? People are starting to stare--"

Bucky got to his feet. "I'm okay. Just--a little shaky, I guess." He attempted a weak smile. Steve gave him one back.

They arrived at Steve's uncle's house well after sundown. A small, swarthy woman in a floral print dress answered the door. Bucky felt something else stir in his memory at the sight of her dark eyes and curly brown hair.

"Steven! Oh, it's been ages! You look so much like your mother! Oh!" She pressed a hand to her ample bosom before launching herself at Steve. The little blond was entirely engulfed in her arms.

"Hey, Aunt Debbie," Steve said, his voice muffled by her shoulder.

"And who's this?" she asked, finally looking over at Bucky.

"This is my friend, James. He just came back from deployment. We met at work," Steve replied robotically. He was complete garbage at lying, but his aunt was too overwhelmed to notice. If Bucky had been up to it, he would have chuckled.

"Please, ma'am, call me Bucky. All my friends do." Bucky offered his real hand, which was clasped between both of Aunt Debbie's.

"Bucky, I'm delighted! Please, come in, come in!"

The house was a mid-century modern mess, although Bucky lacked the terminology to describe its plainness accurately. The brown carpet was tacky under his feet, and the couch looked like it had seen better days. Pictures of Jesus Christ adorned every wall, most accompanied by framed posters of scripture passages. Bucky thought of a household shrine with a small font and ceramic Christ child.

_Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch._

"Take a seat! Can I get you something to drink?" Debbie asked.

"Water, I think, would be great for both of us," Steve said, perching on the edge of the sofa. Bucky sat down beside him. Debbie moved her wide body into the kitchen. Steve gave him a searching look, and Bucky patted his knee.

A young man (?) came out of a back bedroom. His head and eyebrows were shaved, the latter penciled back in over a mask of white stage makeup. Black lipstick emphasized the thin twist of a mouth, while a cascade of leather and lace disguised any hint of a human body underneath.

"John?" Steve asked. Caged laughter brought his shoulders up around his ears. Bucky still had no idea what he was looking at. Man or woman? Human? ...Ghoul?

"Hey, Steve," the person said. Definitely a man, then.

"I go by Chalice now," he went on.

"Terribly sorry," Steve squeaked. His shoulders quaked as he started to break.

"Who's your friend?" John/Chalice asked. He sat down across from them in a sagging recliner. Bucky tilted his head as he took in the image of the bald, pasty man sitting amidst the cheesy religious imagery.

"This is James. Goes by Bucky."

"Cool name, dude. You like Nirvana? What about The Cure?"

Bucky tilted his head in the other direction and drew his brows together. "You mind if I smoke?" he asked.

"Go ahead. You got cloves?"

"Lucky Strikes." The brunet lit up. It was fascinating. The creature's boots were three inches high. But why? For what purpose?

Debbie returned with two glasses of ice water, which Bucky took gratefully.

"John--"

"Chalice!"

Steve finally broke. He snorted with laughter but tried to pretend he choked on his water.

"It's a phase," Debbie told Steve with a look of one long suffering. "Are you still a nurse? We're so sorry we couldn't make it to your graduation."

"N-No worries," stammered Steve. "Ma was able to make it."

"Poor dear. I'm sorry we missed the funeral too...--"

"Please. It's fine," the blond stated more firmly.

"Christ, Mom," John groaned.

"Is that Steve?" A tall blond man, Steve's uncle Robin, came up from the basement and Steve got to his feet. Manly hugs were exchanged, introductions were made. The whole family was there now, chatting. Bucky dipped his fingers in his water and rubbed his thumb against his forefinger.

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...I have had lustful thoughts about my best friend Arnie._

Bucky looked up at Steve and his family. He clocked Uncle Robin as a petty criminal right away. It was something about the narrow, shifty eyes and the downward slant of the mouth. Bucky didn't trust him.

Steve and Bucky were going to be sleeping on the pull out bed downstairs, in the so-called family room. Tired as he was, Steve desperately wanted to find out more about James Barnes--and avoid another meltdown like what happened in the cab. Bucky seemed fine now, contemplative, even, but he didn't want to take that risk.

And his cousin (whatever he wanted to be called now; Steve couldn't look at him without laughing) kept pestering Bucky about bands he could never have heard of and asking them if they wanted to see his friend's band in concert.

"Is there dancing?" Bucky asked, grimacing as he stretched out on the pullout.

"A certain kind of dancing, yes," John replied. He was sitting in a chair nearby, playing with an eyebrow piercing. "Probably nothing like what you do in New York," he concluded.

Bucky frowned in confusion. "The Lindy Hop?"

Steve stopped the shout of laughter just in time.

"Is that a club?"

And he lost it again. He fell back on the bed, holding his gut as he rocked back and forth with laughter. Bucky and John both stared down at him.

"What's so funny, short stack?" Bucky asked. He poked him in the ribs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but you two don't even speak the same language. We can go if you want, Buck, but you're going to be disappointed if you're thinking about dancing." Steve dashed the tears from his eyes and sat up.

Something shifted behind Bucky's eyes. Suddenly, Steve was very aware of John's presence in the room. He licked his lips, even though his mouth had gone completely dry.

"Actually, I'm pretty beat," Bucky said, not taking his eyes off of Steve's.

"M-Me too. I can't believe I fell asleep in the library," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, which was suddenly sweaty. Somehow, he was hot and cold at the same time. Mostly hot.

"Well, maybe tomorrow," John said. "You guys want to play cards?"

"No," Steve said far too quickly. Bucky smirked.

"I think we're just gonna rest," the brunet said, giving Steve's cousin a hard look. He finally seemed to get the picture and stood to leave. They waited until his footsteps faded before moving closer together.

Odd, discordant music filtered into the basement from an upstairs bedroom. Bucky put his hand against Steve's cheek as Debbie banged on her son's door and soon gave up. Steve's eyes dropped to Bucky's lips. He found himself leaning in, but it was Bucky who closed the distance between them.

Steve had never been kissed by anyone but this man, so, while he wasn't surprised when their noses bumped together, he was embarrassed. Bucky just tilted his head to the side and kept going, licking his way into Steve's mouth. The moment their tongues touched was electric. Steve gasped and threaded his fingers through Bucky's long hair. Fifty years in cryogenic deep freeze had done nothing to dull the brunet here; whoever James Barnes had been, he was no virgin like Steve.

"Mm, are you sure?" Bucky asked him. He slipped his metal hand up underneath Steve's shirt, eliciting a shiver in the smaller man.

He nodded.

"I think I still remember how," Bucky said with a throaty chuckle. His eyes were dark and hooded; Steve's cock twitched against his thigh. The larger man recaptured his lips with a soft growl, pulled the gun from the back of Steve's jeans, and set it on the side table as he moved between his legs. Steve slipped his arms underneath both of Bucky's and started pulling his shirt up inch by inch.

"You're so sweet, Steve. I wanna suck on you like fuckin' candy--" Bucky dropped his head to the other man's neck and tongued the hollow of his throat. Biting back a whimper, Steve shoved his fingers down the back of Bucky's jeans and gripped handfuls of his ass. Now that he'd made up his mind, he didn't know why he waited as long as he had. Bucky's skin felt so good against his hands. So did the hardness he felt pressed against his thigh.

Bucky sat him up so that he could pull the shirt over his head. Steve returned the favor and smirked up at the other man as he kissed the pink scar tissue around Bucky's left shoulder. Meanwhile, his nimble fingers went to work on the man's fly.

"Christ, Steve--Stevie--" he moaned, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs. "I don't know what I want more, to fuck you or feel you so deep inside me I can taste you--"

"Loud one, ain'tcha?" Steve laughed. He was so turned on he forgot to stifle his Brooklyn accent. He finally got Bucky's fly open and his cock in his hands. Hard, it was almost two handfuls for him and dripping over his fingers. Bucky released a high, keening moan and leaned back, silently begging Steve with his eyes.

Steve looked from Bucky's face and back to his erection. He licked his lips and scooted down the bed so that his raised knees were behind the other man's back and, with his elbows propped underneath him, he took Bucky in his mouth. God, his cock tasted so good: sweet, salty, intensely masculine. He never thought another man's dick in his mouth would be something he'd crave. Bucky had the presence of mind to smother his cries with his hand, but Steve wished he were in a position to hear him.

"Steve, baby, please," Bucky begged. He pushed his hands through his hair, piling it on top of his head before letting it spill down his back and shoulders.

"Bucky," he replied, sitting up. "Take your pants off."

The brunet leapt to obey. He fell back on his ass and wiggled out of his jeans so fast it was like they disappeared. Steve shucked his own as well and put his arms around the larger man's neck. Finally, they were flesh to delectable flesh. Bucky pressed his lips against Steve's ear. "Tell me what you like. I'll do anything--I'll be anything you ask," he whispered.

"I like you, Buck. I want you to be you," Steve replied, "and I haven't exactly done this before."

"Oh," Bucky replied, visibly faltering. Steve blushed, but recovered quickly. They were feeling each other out in more than just physical ways. Steve caught on perhaps a little more swiftly than Bucky. It was clear in the way Bucky touched him--platonically unless explicitly granted permission--that he was the more submissive of the two. Good thing Bucky proverbially offering him his neck made Steve so hard his vision went blurry.

"But you're gonna do what I say?" he asked, idly toying with one of Bucky's nipples.

"Anything," he breathed.

"Then you're gonna tell me if I do something you don't like or that hurts, first of all."

"Little pain never killed anyone, sugar." Bucky grinned down at him and dragged his fingers down Steve's chest. He looked at Steve's red, dripping erection with naked desire.

"This time. No one gets hurt. Understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Bucky replied, still staring down. He wiggled and licked his lips. "Please."

"Go ahead," Steve told him, and Bucky dropped to his elbows and knees with obvious relief. He wrapped his lips around the head of Steve's cock and sucked--hard. His hands went up to Steve's ass to pull him in deeper. The blond shut his eyes and buried his hands in Bucky's hair.

Oh God, Oh Christ...

Bucky took him so deep his tongue flickered against his balls.

"Enough," Steve declared, pushing Bucky off of him. The brunet pulled back with a whimper.

"I'm gonna come if you keep that up," he laughed, though his voice trembled.

Bucky groaned. "Give it to me, please, baby, give it--"

"I want to--ya know--I wanna come inside you. Not your mouth," Steve explained.

"Oh," Bucky said again, his eyes wide and blue as he stared up at him.

"You don't have any diseases I should know about, do ya?" Steve hated to ask, but he had to. They didn't have a condom.

"I don't get sick." Bucky's brows were drawn together in confusion.

"Okay." Steve smoothed the other man's hair back from his face and guided him onto his back. The adoring way Bucky looked up at him made Steve feel seven feet tall. He kissed him again, taking control this time, ravishing Bucky's mouth.

"You're so sweet for me, Buck. So beautiful. You know that, don'tcha?" he asked.

Bucky turned his head and kissed Steve's palm.

God, this man would be the end of him.

Bucky drew his knees up, offering himself to Steve. And how could he resist? The blond put two fingers in his mouth and rubbed them against Bucky's hole. He may not have done this before, but he knew the basic idea. Bucky tossed his head back and moaned.

"Touch yourself, Buck. I wanna see," Steve whispered into his ear. Bucky immediately wrapped his fingers around his cock and moved his hand in a slow, twisting stroke. Steve breached him with the tip of one finger.

That tight ring of muscle gripped the digit like a vice. Steve never knew how powerful being inside another person could make him feel. He glanced back up at Bucky's face.

"Please," the brunet repeated.

"We need lube," Steve told him, reluctantly pulling away. When he stepped off of the bed, Bucky panicked.

"No, Steve, no, no, please, don't leave me. Please don't leave me, Steve--"

Steve saw that lonely creature from the cell and his heart broke. "No worries, sweetheart! I'll be right back. I promise. Sit tight, okay?"

He ran into the downstairs bathroom and tore through the medicine cabinet until he found a jar of Vaseline. He brought it back to the bed where Bucky was curled on his side, completely desolate.

"Hey, hey now, Buck. I'm back. Are you okay?"

Bucky threw himself around Steve so hard he knocked the wind out of him.

"Are you okay? Do you still want me to...?"

"Please," Bucky whispered, and rolled onto his back. Steve kissed the inside of his knee and slipped one slicked finger inside him. Bucky went back to stroking himself. His little whimpers made Steve's heart beat faster. He kissed his thigh, his hipbone. His tongue delved into Bucky's navel. The brunet's abdomen shuddered underneath Steve's lips. He heard Bucky's breath catch in his throat.

"There's my pretty baby," Steve murmured, just before taking the head of Bucky's cock in his mouth. He clumsily worked another finger inside him. His hands weren't strong enough to really stretch Bucky out. Steve prayed it would be enough. Meanwhile, Bucky continued to make the most delicious noises.

Steve slowly pulled his fingers free. "You ready for me, Buck?" he asked.

"I'm gonna die if you don't get your cock inside me," Bucky replied. His hips moved in little circles as he loosely palmed his arousal.

"Can't have that," Steve sighed, slicking himself up. "Y-You might have to help me in."

In an amazing display of flexibility, Bucky lifted his legs even higher and reached between them for Steve's length. He guided Steve inside him with his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. Once the head was in, they both moaned.

"Christ, you're so hot and tight," Steve groaned.

"Steve," Bucky whimpered.

The blond pushed inside him, inch by inch. Bucky cupped Steve's face in both hands, and Steve drew his thumb into his mouth.

"Is it good?" he asked, working his tongue against the pad of his thumb.

Bucky whimpered in response.

"Do you want me to move?"

"Please, Stevie!"

Steve braced his hands against Bucky's chest and rolled his hips experimentally. The brunet arched his back and opened his mouth in a silent moan.

This was power. This was love. This was everything Steve had ever wanted, all he ever searched for.

"Oh! Oh! Ah!" Bucky cried. His toes curled hard enough to pop. Steve pounded into him, one hand jerking the other man off, the other rubbing his nipple. He was actually surprised when Bucky clenched around him and came with a shout.

Steve did that. Steve was the reason come was pooling in Bucky's navel.

It was more than enough to send him over the edge.

"That's it, oh, fuck, Steve, come inside me! Fill me up!"

Bucky's cock spurted one more time. Steve shuddered and groaned as the other man's body milked his orgasm for all it was worth.

After the aftershocks subsided, Bucky put his arms around Steve and nuzzled his ear. "How was it? Did I do good?" he asked.

"So good, Buck," Steve panted.

"Can you say it again? Can you call me that again?"

"What? What did I call you?"

Bucky shifted underneath him. When he spoke, Steve could hear the smile in his voice. "Pretty baby."

"Oh." Steve blushed. He had called him that, hadn't he? Well, if Bucky liked it...

"Of course you're my pretty baby. My beautiful sweetheart. My Bucky."

Bucky practically glowed. "But maybe only call me that when we're alone," he said. "And maybe when we're alone, you'll let me call you daddy."

Steve's cock, still inside Bucky, leapt. This man would _definitely_ be the death of him.


	3. Chapter 3

"I won't tell anyone about you and Bucky."

Steve looked away from his game of Tetris (at which he was fantastic and totally destroying his cousin) and over at John. George Michael was playing on the radio, drowning out their conversation from the two older people upstairs. Breakfast had been a tense affair--Steve had been sure Robin would know somehow that he was both gay and no longer a virgin, but ultimately nothing had happened beyond a few playful glances between himself and Bucky. Right now, the brunet was in the shower. Steve and John were alone.

"How do you mean?" Steve asked tightly.

"You know. I won't say anything--if you guys go to the club with me tonight," John said. He made a boneheaded move on screen and Steve won the game.

"Really, John?" he asked.

"Chalice. And I'm serious."

The song on the radio was interrupted by a news bulletin: Howard Stark and his wife were found dead in a roadside accident. Steve jumped off the couch and turned it off just as Bucky stepped out of the bathroom.

"I guess we're going out tonight with Chalice," Steve told him.

"Okay," Bucky replied with a shrug. He held the towel around his waist with one hand and lit a cigarette with the other. One would never suspect that last night he had begged to be called "pretty baby."

Steve ignored his hard-on.

When the sun went down, Steve went to put his shoes on.

"Wait," John said, "you two don't really plan on going out like that, do you? I mean, Bucky could probably pull it off, but not you, Steve."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it? We packed pretty light," Steve snapped. He was stung more by the implication that he and Bucky didn't belong together--that Bucky was too good for him.

Because, secretly, he believed it to be true.

"Wear some of my clothes," John suggested.

"Not for me. Buck can do what he wants, but I'm not wearing that get up." He looked at his cousin's leather and mesh ensemble and shook his head.

"I'm used to wearing leather," Bucky said with a shrug.

Steve went back to Tetris for another half hour before his (what? boyfriend? lover?) reemerged. Steve only just barely kept his tongue in his mouth.

Bucky was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that stopped just under his pectoral muscles. His midriff was swathed in dark mesh. Leather pants that fit Bucky better than they probably ever did John came up just above his pubic hair. His eyes were ringed with dark eyeliner, making the gray-blue of his irises pop.

"I think Stevie likes it," John smirked.

"You look nice, Buck," Steve said. The brunet looked up, eyes shining, and stopped pulling at the hem of his shirt.

"You could try," he suggested.

Steve laughed. "No. I'll change into a black t-shirt to...match, but I'm not diving into John's wardrobe."

"Suit yourself," Bucky said, hiding his disappointment by averting his eyes. Steve swapped shirts and they headed out in John's cramped (even for Steve) Geo Metro.

The club was loud; Steve was immediately put off. From the look in Bucky's eyes, it was not at all what he was expecting. Kids dressed in various shades of dark milled about in a blacklight playground, drinking technicolor cocktails to a thrumming, off-tempo beat.

"How do you dance to this?" Bucky asked.

"You don't," Steve laughed, looping his arm through Bucky's.

"I wanted to dance with you," the brunet shouted over the music.

"I don't dance, sweetheart. I'll go grab us a table. Have John get us something to drink."

Bucky disappeared into the crowd with his cousin while the smaller man claimed a table. The music was already making his head hurt. He rubbed his temples and sat down.

A young redheaded woman in a surprisingly tame black dress was seated at the table next to his. She kept glancing over at him. When Bucky returned (without John but with two drinks) Steve stood up and pulled out a chair for him.

"Such a gentleman," Bucky snorted, handing Steve the fruitier-looking of the two drinks. He realized how they must look: Bucky with his scotch and soda, Steve with his Sex On The Beach. Steve would always look like a fairy when they were together.

Well, he knew the truth. He might be a fag, but he was a man, too.

"You're scowling," Bucky pointed out. He leaned in close and put his lips to Steve's ear. "You want me to take you into the men's room? Find a stall, get on my knees, let you run the head of that delicious cock against my lips before I suck you down--"

Steve groaned and ran his hand over the wet spot on his jeans. "Buck, stop it."

He laughed deep in his throat. "Well, if I can't dance, I might as well fuck."

"Later, if you're good," Steve told him, and Bucky leaned back, giving him a wide-eyed glance before dropping his gaze.

"Okay."

"James, is that you?"

The redhead from the next table now stood beside theirs. She was looking at Bucky with undisguised horror. Bucky looked back at her blankly.

The woman sat down without asking. Steve tensed. Part of him had wondered how long his luck would last--how long until Bucky remembered he could do better than Steve. It made him feel guilty, like he was taking advantage of a sick man.

And that was exactly what he had done, wasn't it...?

"James, I know you must not remember me, but a certain...mutual party sent me to recover 'lost assets,' if you catch my drift," she said tightly.

Bucky stared at her and took a sip of his drink. "And?"

She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe I'm explaining this. HYDRA will go to any lengths to get you back! They hired me to recover you, but they didn't know about--us. I didn't know the asset was you."

Steve's heart broke, even though Bucky laid a reassuring hand on his thigh.

"They know where you are. They can predict your every move. You think they didn't know that Steve Rogers has family here? You have to get out of Wichita."

"Who are you?" Bucky asked.

"Natasha Romanov. You made me what I am. We were lovers, once."

As if that wasn't obvious, Steve thought. Thanks, lady.

Bucky set his drink down. "But we aren't now. You could have helped me. You didn't. I have no reason to trust you. I would kill you, but that would only kick up more attention, wouldn't it, toots? Give my location away. On the other hand, I can't let you live, because you're going to follow us. You'll probably appeal to Steve's humanity here, because you know I don't have any. Good approach."

"Learned from the best," she replied. "But I'll go one further and offer to take the tracking device out of your arm. If you kill me, they already know where you are, but good luck finding that yourself."

"How do you know where it is?" Steve asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"I saw them put it in," she replied, turning to Steve for the first time. Her eyes were green and calm, even though Bucky was threatening to kill her. "This isn't the first time he's escaped, though it is the first time he's taken a civilian hostage."

Steve opened his mouth to protest.

"What are you offering?" Bucky asked, cutting him off.

"Simple. I take out the tracking device, and you let me go with you," Natasha said.

Steve bit his lip on his immediate, hostile response. This had to be Bucky's decision.

The brunet lit a cigarette and sucked in a greedy mouthful. Should he trust her? He had no memory of her--certainly not of being intimate with her. He couldn't recall, even in the flashes of memory before the ice, of ever having sex with a woman. It didn't seem like something he would do. Before he fell asleep last night, he remembered another man in boots and not a lot else whipping his ass with a riding crop. And also being taken in that man's arms and coddled while his ass stung. (Jimmy, my sweet baby boy--your daddy takes good care of you, doesn't he? Tell me what you need to feel all better.) The redhead was nowhere in his memory.

"Why do you want to go with us?" he finally asked.

Natasha smiled and leaned back in her chair. "I trust you. I've been trying to go straight, but I didn't have anyone in my corner. Now I've got you. And maybe Steve, too, as soon as he gets over his jealous insecurities over there."

Bucky looked over at Steve, who blushed and turned his face away.

"What do you think?" Bucky asked him.

"I think," Steve said slowly, his voice barely audible over the music, "that another pair of eyes and hands in a situation like this are invaluable--so long as they're trustworthy."

"I assure you, Steve, I am anything but trustworthy. But I won't betray you so long as you serve my purpose, which, right now, is getting the hell out of Dodge. And seeing as we're going the same way--" Natasha shrugged.

"Great," Steve replied flatly.

Natasha arched her brows briefly, her full lips quirking in a particularly cryptic way. "First things first. Good work on the--disguise, James. I might not have recognized you if not for your boy here."

Bucky didn't have to look over to know Steve was glaring.

"How can we turn a hundred pounds of anger into something unrecognizable?" the redhead asked.

"Either make yourself uncomfortable to look at, or completely invisible," Bucky replied smoothly. Although his primary function was termination and extraction, he had some relevant experience in espionage.

"Standing next to you, he will never be invisible," Natasha said. Bucky drummed his metal fingers against the table. He knew she was right. Sitting here, Steve stuck out like a sore thumb.

"I'm sitting right here," the blond said irritably.

"Believe me, we know," Natasha replied. "I'm trying to help."

Bucky rubbed Steve's thigh through his jeans thoughtfully. He remembered the other man's boots, the riding crop. "Do you trust me?" he asked softly, pitching his voice just for Steve's ears.

"Of course I do, Buck, but I don't--I don't want to look silly."

The brunet understood, really, he did. Steve had endured a lot of abuse growing up. He didn't like to draw attention to himself. In this case, he didn't have a choice.

"Trust me," Bucky repeated, kissing his cheek.

"While you two are doing that, I'm going to hotwire a car," Natasha announced.

Bucky left them both to find John. Between the two of them, it was easy to find someone who cut hair.

Steve reluctantly followed them into the bathroom. The music thudded through the walls and echoed off the dirty tile. The girl who cut hair cooed over how adorable Steve was before making quick work of the hair on the sides and back of his head. His hair was so fair that the fade was almost unnoticeable. She kept the top long but worked gel-coated fingers through it, leaving it artfully tousled.

"With that pretty skin of yours, you should think about tattoos," she told them, glancing at Bucky because Steve had gone unresponsive.

"Some other time, toots," Bucky told her. "Now scram."

"Now what?" Steve asked tersely. A muscle leapt in his jaw.

"We go shopping," John replied. "I was wrong. Goth works on Bucky, but Steve, you're all grunge."

Bucky handed him a fistful of cash. "Find him something tasteful."

When John was gone and it was just him and Steve in the bathroom, Bucky put his arms around the blond's waist. It was like gripping a tension cable.

"Are you angry?" he asked.

"I feel like an idiot," Steve grumped.

"Funny. You don't look like one. Remember what I was talking about earlier?"

Steve flicked his eyes in Bucky's direction, and Bucky shoved him into one of the stalls. Steve squawked as the other man fell to his knees before him, tearing at his jeans.

"Buck--what are you doing? We can't--not here!"

"I beg to disagree," Bucky replied, finally freeing him. Steve was hard, the little faker. Bucky gripped him by the base of his cock and slapped the hard flesh against his lips and cheek.

Steve swallowed with a soft click as he pushed his fingers through Bucky's hair so that he could see his face. "Is that what you like?" he asked softly.

"Uh huh," Bucky replied, licking away a drop of Steve's precome from the slit.

"Then take me all the way. I want to see your lips wrapped around my cock," he growled, his anger and jealousy about the situation showing through.

"Yes, sir," Bucky whispered, eyes shining. He did as he was told, and Steve put his hand on the back of his head and gently pushed him down farther.

"That's it, baby. You're so good. So good for me."

Bucky moaned around the cock in his mouth. Steve knew just the right thing to say. He was good; Steve thought he was good, and that was all that mattered.

Steve smirked and stroked his cheekbones. "Your makeup's running, baby. It's a good look on you."

For you, for you, all for you, daddy, Bucky thought, pulling back to suckle on the head of his dick.

Steve groaned, twisting his hands in Bucky's hair. "Look at me. You have the sweetest eyes. Sweet thing. Sweet, pretty thing." He guided Bucky's head in a slow, steady rhythm. Bucky choked and dropped his gaze for a moment. He heard Steve grit his teeth a second before he (lightly) slapped his cheek.

"I said, look at me!"

Bucky grasped at Steve's jeans and just let the other man guide him. God, it felt good to let go. To be praised for doing well and corrected on his mistakes--but gently. Always with love.

"That's it, that's it, my pretty baby. Oh God, I'm coming--don't stop--"

Steve's come filled his mouth with its salty, briny taste. Bucky held it and his cock there until Steve was soft. Only when he pulled out of his mouth did Bucky finally swallow.

"Better?" Bucky asked, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. His hands were shaking.

"Sorry, I'm bein' a prick," Steve said, dropping to his knees to take Bucky in his arms. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am," Bucky replied, tucking his head under Steve's chin. He clutched at the blond man's shirt and breathed in his clean, masculine scent. Steve rocked him back and forth, and was generally perfect.

"It doesn't bother you, bein' with me like this when I don't even come up to your chin?"

"I don't give a shit how tall you are. You're big on the inside. And your dick ain't bad either."

"Thank you," Steve replied with a soft laugh.

"Now are you gonna behave and play dress up for me?"

"I'd do anything for you, Buck."

Bucky kissed him deeply just as John returned.

"Get out here, you two!" he shouted.

Steve tucked himself back into his jeans and pecked Bucky on the lips one more time before getting to his feet. Bucky joined him, still cleaving to his side. His metal hand was twisted in the back of his shirt.

A moment later, Steve was dressed in a battered t-shirt advertising Coke. The sleeves were ripped away along with a good chunk of the bottom hem, which allowed his belly button to peek out. Luckily, John got him a flannel that hung from his shoulders like wings. His jeans were ripped at the knees.

"I know you wouldn't go for makeup, so I got you these, too," John said, handing him a pair of glasses. "They're not prescription."

Steve put them on and squinted up at Bucky. "What do you think?" he asked.

The brunet stepped close to him and ran his fingers over what skin was exposed of Steve's midriff. "I'd blow you," he said with a cheeky grin. Steve laughed.

"Let's see if Natasha is ready," he said, kissing Bucky's chin. Then he turned to his cousin.

"Chalice, you've been great. I'm glad we got a chance to reconnect. I hope this won't be the last time."

"You're going?" John asked, shoulders slumping.

"Have to," Steve replied, hugging the other man. Bucky shook his hand.

And then they were gone.

* * *

 

Natasha found them an Astrovan. Somehow.

They drove out to a small town in western Kansas, Bucky sprawled on the mattress in the back, Steve and Natasha in the front seats. After a bit of bickering, they settled into an almost friendly banter. Steve learned that, like Bucky, Natasha was older than she looked, and, also like Bucky, she had no interest in rekindling their relationship. Neither of them had been in their right minds when they sought refuge in each others' bed.

"You are a cutie, though. Have you discovered James's little kink yet?" Natasha asked.

"I can hear you both," Bucky called out from the back.

"I--might have," Steve replied.

"You wouldn't think, to look at him. But then I wouldn't think you could accommodate him, either. Not at first glance."

"I take offense to that," the blond laughed.

"You didn't let me finish. After talking to you, I have no doubt you can keep him in line. Just be careful; he's sneaky."

"Again, I'm sitting right here," Bucky interrupted, sitting up on his knees between them. He'd found a Twinkie somewhere and was licking the cream off his fingers.

"Good, because it's about time to get that tracker out of you."

Natasha pulled the van over and put the hazards on. She climbed into the back with Bucky, leaving Steve to stand guard up front. He still had his gun, just in case.

Steve waited while soft electric hums and metal scrapes came from the back. At first, the truck that rolled up on them wasn't terribly suspicious. Then it pulled up so close that it was blocking them in. Steve pulled his gun.

"Guys, we have a problem," he said.

"Keep 'em busy, Steve," Natasha replied. Her voice was muffled by a tool she held in her mouth. "And you stay put."

Steve got out of the van just as three other men did. They were heavily armed and not trying to hide it.

"Hey, guys, it looks like you blocked us in here," he said, cocking his gun.

"Where is the asset, nurse?" one snapped.

"I'm Steve, by the way," he said, getting his aim. The men pulled their weapons, but Steve fired first. Two went down (his first killshots--wouldn't Dad be proud?) before the other open fired. Steve got behind the van just in time.

"Hey, guys! Little help!" he shouted, slapping the side of the van.

The guy was still firing. The windshield shattered; the van lurched as the tires were shot out. Natasha and Bucky hopped out the back and came around the other car as Steve returned fire. He got the man in the gut before the two meta-humans could act.

The three of them met at the hood of the ruined van. Bucky was looking at him with undisguised lust. Steve felt a little smug.

"Good job, Steve," Natasha said.

"What are we going to do for transportation?" he asked.

"We'll take theirs, of course. More weapons and ammo, more tech. We're made," she replied, hopping in.

"You knew they were following us," Bucky finally said, dragging himself back to the present situation. "You picked this monster on purpose, to use as cover."

"Of course. I didn't think the situation would be handled so neatly, though."

Bucky pulled Steve into a one-armed hug and pressed a kiss on his cheek. This time, Steve joined the brunet in the back of the Russian's van. There were seats in the back of this one, but a wide, empty space by the back doors. It was here that Bucky chose to sit, pulling Steve down on his lap. He was--rather hard underneath his leather pants.

"Are you okay?" he asked Steve.

"Feels a little weird to have killed somebody, I guess. How's the arm?"

"A little lighter."

He had to laugh despite the uneasy feeling in his gut. Bucky nuzzled his ear.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Steve heard the unspoken words there: you take care of me, so I'll take care of you.

"I will be," he replied.

"I'll be honest, sugar, I wanna fuck you in the back of this HYDRA van." Bucky laughed throatily in his ear.

"Didn't think you were into that," Steve replied.

"Kiddin' me? Just 'cause I like gettin' spanked doesn't mean I don't want to be balls deep inside you."

Steve's face felt like it caught fire. "Oh," he replied. "Maybe later?" He gave Natasha a significant look.

"Sure thing," Bucky replied, kissing his cheek again.

"Where are we headed?" Steve asked the redhead.

"West coast," she replied. "Plenty of places to hide out there. We need to get new identities. Luckily I know a guy."

Steve rubbed his wrist uneasily. He liked his current identity, thank you. He glanced over at Bucky's inscrutable expression. Steve was giving up a lot to be with him, taking unnecessary risks, burning bridges... Was he worth it?

"Have you remembered anything else yet?" Steve asked him.

"Nothing important," the brunet answered.

"What about your sister? She might still be alive."

Bucky shrugged. "I'm not that guy anymore."

"But, Buck--"

"Enough. It's not important. To her, I died decades ago. Leave it be."

Steve settled back down, well and properly rebuked. He sighed and wrapped his skinny arms around his knees. Suddenly he missed Brooklyn with an almost physical ache. He missed his job. He missed Sam.

"I think I was Catholic," Bucky said, interrupting his thoughts. "My ma was Italian, I think? My dad wasn't, though. That's why we moved out of Chicago to Indiana."

"That's a lot to have remembered, Buck," Steve said, lightly praising.

"But not really relevant."

Steve sighed. He wanted to go home. He barely knew Bucky, he thought for the hundredth time--and it seemed Bucky had no interest in finding out more. How could they base a relationship on that?

Did Steve even want a relationship? Or did he just want someone to take care of?

Sometimes he liked Bucky quite a lot, but other times, like now, he was kind of an asshole. Steve realized that he'd stopped pitying him a long time ago--which would be a good thing, except it made him realize that the other man didn't shoot rainbows out his ass, and he was currently trapped in a van with him.

Steve had killed for him. Was that the kind of person he wanted to be?

Late that night, they pulled into a seedy motel and paid for two rooms. Bucky pulled Steve down on one of the beds and buried his face in his neck.

The knot of anxiety in Steve's chest tightened.

Bucky ran his hands down the other man's sides and tried to coax Steve into putting his arms around him. Steve remained inert on the mattress.

"C'mon, daddy, don't you want me?" Bucky laughed as he picked up one of Steve's hands and placed it on his hip. Steve caressed the bare skin he felt there briefly before pulling his hand away.

"I'm tired, Buck. Maybe I should sleep on the other bed tonight," he said.

Bucky started back, panic creeping in the corners of his eyes. "No--I'll be quiet. Real still. You can sleep in this bed."

Steve tried to pull away, but Bucky held him tight. "I just don't think it's a good idea--"

"Please! I don't understand; was I bad? Whatever I did, I'll fix it. You can hurt me if you want--"

"Buck! James! Listen to me," Steve said, hands on his shoulders. "You didn't do anything wrong and I don't want to hurt you. This is what makes me uncomfortable. Sometimes you're like half a person. That's why I want you to remember. Can you tell me why you need me to sleep with you?"

Bucky just pulled at Steve's clothes for a moment, not answering. The look in his eyes told Steve he was hoping the blond man would just drop it and let him stay. When Steve didn't waver, Bucky finally said, "I'm scared to sleep alone. I'm afraid I'll have nightmares. You make me feel safe. It doesn't matter if you don't want to fuck me; I don't care. Just don't leave me alone with them."

"Who?" Steve asked. Against his better judgement, he ran his hand over Bucky's hair.

"The people I killed. Howard and the others. I promise it won't be forever. I just need you now."

Steve's resolve started to waver. He remembered how Bucky had been in the cell and how he was now; it was a world of difference. He was using sex as a coping mechanism and had an unhealthy fixation on Steve--extremely unhealthy--but maybe if Steve corrected it now...?

"I can't keep nightmares away. You're going to have to face your past eventually."

Bucky looked down sadly. "I know. It's just too much right now. And then I think--if Steve likes me, if Steve thinks I'm good, I can't be the monster I think I am."

"You're not a monster! You're a man who has a bratty kid sister and served our country in the most vicious war we ever fought. That's why I don't want you to forget him, even if you're not that guy anymore. Get it?"

Bucky nodded. "So you'll stay?"

"Yeah, I'll stay," Steve sighed. "I just wish you'd remember that I left my life for you, and I'm scared too."

Bucky put his arms around him and hid his face against Steve's shoulder. "I thought I was helping. Back in the bathroom."

"I know you did." But Steve still felt like he was taking advantage. He patted Bucky's back. "Go to sleep now. I'll make sure you don't dream."

It wasn't like he was going to be sleeping soon anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky woke suddenly in the middle of the night, unsure of what had startled him, but what became immediately clear was that Steve was not beside him.   
  
Then he heard a scream.   
  
His mind suddenly became very clear as he went toward the source of the sound. He, Steve, and Natasha were in a hotel outside of Indianapolis. Steve had convinced him to look his sister up. Natasha wasn't happy about it; she claimed HYDRA would be watching his family, but she hadn't kicked up too much fuss.   
  
Bucky tore through the small room looking for the small man. A second scream sounded, and Bucky turned to the small closet tucked into the corner. He slid the door open and found Steve curled up in the corner in a tiny ball. Bucky knelt down beside him and put his hand on Steve's shoulder.   
  
He was asleep. Steve was having a nightmare.   
  
Bucky stroked his hair until he woke with a snort.   
  
"What the--where am I?"   
  
"Shh, Stevie, you were having a nightmare," Bucky replied.   
  
"How did I get in the closet?"    
  
"You walked here, I guess. You were screamin'. Scared the shit out of me." Bucky fell back on his ass, and Steve crawled to him. The brunet collected him to his chest and leaned against the foot of the bed, slowly rocking back and forth. He vaguely recalled doing this with Becca when she had a nightmare.   
  
He started to hum "Somewhere Over the Rainbow” softly. Steve just curled up closer, tucking his head under Bucky's chin.   
  
Things had been good before his ma died. He and Becks had been happy. His dad was away most of the time (military?), but his ma--Christ, she loved them both so much, even though--   
  
Even though Bucky hadn't been her husband's. Not her second, living husband, anyway. Bucky had been the product of a previous marriage, which was why, after she died, his dad had been quick to leave him at Ft. Lehigh. And then he'd been partnered with a man, a man in tall, black boots...   
  
It seemed Bucky might have abandonment issues for a reason.   
  
He patted Steve's hair and whispered, "Guess what I just remembered?" And told him.   
  
"That's great, sweetheart. I mean, not about being abandoned by your dad, but that you remembered," Steve murmured, hitching himself higher on Bucky's chest. He sniffled quietly.   
  
"Are you crying?"   
  
"No? Kinda," Steve replied.    
  
"Why?" Bucky asked. "Your bad dream?"   
  
"Well, that and you. I'm sad for you, I guess. I had my ma until she died three years ago. And my dad and I were close until he died in Lebanon in '83. But it seems like everyone let you down."   
  
"Not everyone, sugar. You're doin' your best by me," Bucky said.   
  
Steve leaned up and kissed him. "I'm sorry I woke you up."   
  
"S'okay. You want to go back to bed?"    
  
Steve nodded against his chest, and Bucky got to his feet with the smaller man in his arms. He settled Steve in first before crawling in beside him. Bucky flopped onto his stomach, and the other man climbed on top of his back. He ran his fingers through Bucky's hair until he purred.   
  
"Want me to braid it?" he asked softly.   
  
"Mm hm," he hummed. Steve did so slowly before curling up between his shoulders like a cat.   
  
Natasha found them that way the next morning. "Wake up, lover boys! Time to hit the road!"   
  
Steve grumbled, sat up, wobbled, and fell off the side of the bed before Bucky could catch him.   
  
"You two really sleep like that?" she asked.   
  
Bucky glared at her as he helped Steve off the floor.   
  
"I'm okay! I'm okay," Steve declared.   
  
A few minutes later, they were headed toward a suburb of Indianapolis. Natasha had tracked Bucky's sister, Rebecca Proctor (nee Barnes), to a residential neighborhood there. Pulling up to her house, they looked like the world's most likely grunge band. Bucky, his hair still braided, knocked on the door. Steve stood at his side. He could tell from his profile that Bucky was ready to bolt.   
  
A woman who could have been fifty answered after a moment. She seemed on guard.   
  
"Can I help you?" she asked.   
  
Bucky opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.   
  
Steve stepped in. "Are you Rebecca Proctor?" he asked.   
  
"I am," she replied, taking a wary step back.   
  
"I know this will sound strange and you may not believe me, but this is your brother, James."   
  
Becca turned her eyes back to Bucky. "Jimmy has been dead for fifty years. You're not thirty," she said tersely. "I don't find this joke very amusing."   
  
"No joke.  It's me, Becks,” he said.   
  
The woman turned pale. "Maybe you should both come inside."

Steve took Bucky’s hand as Becca stepped aside to let them in.  He was trembling slightly. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered.  Bucky glanced down at him, obviously skeptical.  Becca led them through a small foyer, which was decorated with religious iconography of a different sort from Steve’s aunt’s house. There were icons of mournful women draped in veils, images of the crucified Christ, Mary in various stages of suffering. Steve inwardly cringed and moved closer to Bucky. Catholic, indeed.

Becca led them to a sitting room with a television, couch, and not much else. Steve and Bucky sat on the couch and Becca pulled a chair in from the kitchen.  “What is this?” she demanded.

Bucky told her what he knew about his past, with Steve chiming in from time to time to add additional details. Becca watched Bucky with grim disbelief. Steve’s eyes wandered about the room; it was tidy--no evidence of children (or grandchildren), nor of a husband. It was a rather stark, austere existence. There were a few photographs on the mantle: a black and white photograph of a middle-aged woman, a man in a WWI-era military uniform, and--Bucky. He was in uniform as well, his cap jauntily askew, hair slicked back. He looked so happy and hopeful, it made Steve’s heart break.

When Bucky finally fell silent, Becca stared at them both for a long time. “That’s an incredible story,” she eventually said.

“It’s true,” Bucky said softly, dropping his chin to his chest.

The room was silent for a long time.

“You wear his face, but you’re not my brother,” Becca decided. Steve felt the words hit Bucky like a physical blow, because they rebounded in his own chest. 

“I don’t know what you are,” she concluded, “but it’s unnatural.   _ Ungodly. _ ”

Steve sprang to his feet.  “He’s your brother and terrible, awful things have happened to him! How can you be so nonchalant?”

“Young man, I last saw my brother when I was seven years old.  I don’t remember him.  And if this is what he’s become, I don’t want any part of that.”

“Become?” Bucky repeated. “ _ This  _ is something I’ve always been--if you’re referring to my relationship with Steve.”

“And where’s your family, huh?” Steve shouted. “All I see is a bunch of dead people up on your walls! You should be grateful--”

“I think you both had better leave!” Becca shouted back.

“And I think you should go swab the dust out of your folds!”

Bucky pulled Steve out of the house before he and the old woman came to blows. And Steve would, too. Bucky had never seen him so angry.  His face had gone red; his body was completely rigid in his arms as he carried him out to the van.

“How dare--!”

“Shh, calm down,” Bucky said, sitting him down on the bumper.  “It’s okay.  I don’t know that old lady.  Thanks for trying, but it’s okay, really.”

Steve rubbed his eyes surreptitiously.  

“Her house smelled like cats, didn’t it?” Bucky asked.

Steve laughed through his tears.

“Some people get used to being alone, and then they’re scared to change it.  I get it.  Maybe in a few months, a year, she’ll get used to the idea of having a brother again.  Maybe not.  But either way, it’ll be fine.   _ I’ll  _ be fine.  And so will you.  Come on.”  Bucky put his arms back around the other man and was relieved when Steve returned the gesture.

“I’ll be your family now.  Me and all the people that are gonna come to love you,” Steve said, and Bucky smiled.  Part of him thought it was greedy to want anything--including Steve.  The thought of more than him was almost beyond his grasp.

“We should go before Natasha is right again,” Bucky said, although he was loathe to pull away when Steve was clinging to him so tightly.  Steve Rogers, who never asked anything from anyone.  Steve Rogers, who fit so well against his body and loved him without asking for anything in return.

He and Steve settled in the backseat.  Bucky could tell Steve was still upset--his grand plan to reunite Bucky’s family had gone up in flames--but he was less tense now than before.  Natasha said nothing as she started the van up and pulled out.

For the next two thousand miles, Steve slept with his head in Bucky’s lap.  They jumped from one rock channel to the next, as per Natasha’s commands.  Sometimes they switched positions, and Steve stared out the window while Bucky slept against him.  The brunet’s hair was braided and unbraided a dozen times before they reached the west coast.  Natasha and Steve took turns driving; neither one trusted Bucky behind the wheel, although he assured them he knew how to drive.

“Nazi tanks, maybe,” Steve had said, earning him a light punch on the shoulder.

They arrived in San Francisco around nine o’clock right when the crowds just started coming out for the night.  Steve had just woken up from a nap and Bucky didn’t need to sleep.  Natasha decided to find a room.  After two days of sleeping in the van, they were ready to burn off a little steam.  Steve felt pretty good from what he could see of the young men and women emerging from the woodwork.  They were beautiful and unabashedly in love.  Steve wanted to be as unafraid as they were.  As Bucky already was.

Natasha dropped them off in the Castro with a promise to join them or send a cab.  She blew kisses at Steve and jokingly flipped Bucky off before pulling away from the curb.

“What’s your pleasure, sir?” Steve asked Bucky, slipping his arm through one of the other’s.

“I haven’t gotten off since that night at your uncle’s,” Bucky groused.  “Don’t be so provocative or I’m gonna come in my pants.  Which I haven’t changed in three days.”  He (unfortunately) had changed out of the leather ones right outside of Wichita, but his jeans had to be wearing on him at this point.  Steve was feeling a little grimy himself, but that was grunge, right?  At least he had changed his underwear.

“Cranky, ain’t ya?” he asked, twining his fingers with Bucky’s.  The brunet’s stormy expression started to lighten.

“I promise, whether you’re good or not, I’ll take care of you.  But if you’re good, it’ll be so much better.”

Bucky grumbled softly and pulled them into the first loud club they crossed.   “Dance with me,” he demanded, practically yelling over the throbbing bass line.  “No excuses this time!”

Steve was so caught up in Bucky’s enthusiasm for a moment that he didn’t realize how the other patrons looked at him when they entered.  They were all big men, Bucky’s size, in tight jeans and leather jackets.  A few wore harnesses, leather straps, lots of metal.  They looked at Steve with his fake glasses and tousled hair like he was a particularly disgusting bug.

Bucky whipped him around the small dance floor with a laugh, apparently oblivious to the looks they were getting.

It was obvious that this was a gay club; there wasn’t a woman in the place.  There wasn’t even a single drag queen--

Oh.

Instead of getting upset that Steve wasn’t a part of their exclusive macho man club, he rolled with it.  He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist and pulled him close.  His hands went around to his ass and squeezed hard.  Bucky groaned and put his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“Ah! You tryin’ to prove something, eh, Stevie?” he chuckled into his ear.

“And if I am?” Steve replied, slipping one hand underneath the waistband of Bucky’s jeans.  He made no move to hide what he was doing; he openly fingered his boyfriend’s asshole underneath his jeans.  Bucky’s feet stuttered, his rhythm abandoned as he panted against Steve’s cheek.

“Always the little ones who go the hardest,” one man said as he passed by them.

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky moaned, grinding against Steve’s hip.

The next thing he knew, Steve’s shirt was off and there was a crowd around them.  The remains of the garment hung from Bucky’s fist and pooled on the floor.  Steve pulled his hand away and pushed Bucky down on his knees.  Bucky nuzzled his cock through his jeans, his hands crossed (instinctively, Steve thought) behind his back.

“Hey, hey!” one of the bouncers called.  “You can’t pull that shit in here!”

The men around them booed, but Steve pulled Bucky back up.  “Nice, baby,” he purred.

“You gotta pay for one of the rooms in back in you wanna do that!” the bouncer continued to shout.

Steve couldn’t throw his money at the bouncer fast enough.  He was hornier than he realized.  He didn’t have to pull Bucky along with him once he had the key in hand.  The room was lowly lit with red-shaded lamps; the walls were painted dark.  There was a single bed draped in satin sheets.  Steve didn’t want to know what was on them.  Right now, he didn’t care.  He was too mesmerized by the array of tools mounted on a shelf above the bed.

Riding crops, paddles, nipple clamps, and chains.  Steve didn’t know where to start.

“Hey, Buck,” he said.

“Yeah?”  The brunet was staring, too.

“Take your clothes off, but--maybe not your boots.”

Bucky’s attention went back to Steve.  He bit his lip, eyes all pupil, as he pulled his shirt over his head and tugged at his fly.  With all that hair falling over his shoulders and chest, he looked like something out of wet dream.  He kicked his boots off just long enough to take his pants off before putting them back on again.

“Like this?” he asked, kneeling on the bed.

“Just like that,” Steve replied, two fingers tracing the line of Bucky’s jaw.  He lifted the other man’s chin for a moment before letting it drop.  No one could say that Steve Rogers did not wield authority well.  He found himself slipping into a dark, quiet place inside him.  Here, he was confident.  In charge.  Sexual.

“We need to have some sort of system.  You’ll tell me if I’m doing something you don’t like.  And you’ll do it by saying my name.  Once will be a warning.  Twice is dead stop, do you understand?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bucky replied, his smirk growing wider.  “What am I supposed to call you the rest of the time?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.  Surprise me,” Steve said.  He popped the fly of his own jeans and kicked off his worn sneakers.  When he was naked, he ran a cursory hand up and down his cock, just looking at Bucky, prostrate on the bed.  Finally, he said, “Elbows and knees, baby.”

Bucky responded immediately and without question.  His feet hung off the edge of the bed, while his perfectly rounded ass and thick thighs were presented like a particularly tasty dish.

“You like being spanked?” he asked casually, running his fingers over the variety of toys hanging from the wall.  

“Yes,” Bucky replied.  His breathing was heavy; his shoulder blades almost met when he exhaled.  

Steve purred again before grabbing the riding crop.  It was flexible, well-worn, and genuine--not some cheap novelty store item.  He tapped it gently against his palm before running the broad end over the swell of Bucky’s ass and into the hollow of his lower back.  The brunet shivered and clenched his hands into fists.

The first blow startled them both with the loud crack the crop made against Bucky’s flesh.  Bucky shouted and rocked forward on his knees and elbows.

“That’s it, baby, let me hear it,” Steve breathed, experiencing a headrush when he whipped him a second time.  

“Daddy, please!”

“Tell me what you need, Buck.”

“Harder!”

Steve did as he was told and really put his back into it.  With every new stripe on Bucky’s thighs and ass, the brunet mewled like a kitten.  His cock was hard against his thigh, dripping onto the satin sheets.  Steve abandoned the crop and soothed the white and bleeding welts with his hands and lips.  Bucky moaned.

“What’s my name?” he asked, dragging his hands down the other man’s flanks, steadying him.

“Daddy.  Ah!  You’re my daddy,” Bucky replied.

“Alright, sweetheart.  Alright.”  Steve tongued the end of Bucky’s tailbone before going back to the wall.  If nothing else, Steve had a devious mind.  He looked at what was offered and made up his mind.  “Get up on your knees, facing the door.”

Bucky moved a little slower this time.  He sat up on his knees and folded his arms over his head, arching his back so that Steve could see the line of every muscle, every drop of sweat running down his frame.  His cock stood at attention, curving up slightly toward his belly.  

Steve couldn’t help but touch him, his eyes adoring like one of Becca’s icons.  “You’re so good to me, Buck.  God, I love you.”  The words left his mouth before he could stop them.  Bucky’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t seem surprised.  

“I love you too.  I wish you could see yourself the way I see you now.”

Steve climbed up on the bed and hooked the handcuffs around Bucky’s wrists.  He knew that the other man could break free, but wouldn’t.  He hung the chain of the handcuffs over a hook mounted in the wall, so that Bucky’s arms were tightly suspended over his head.  The larger man looked at Steve with open curiosity and want.  

“What now?” Bucky asked.

“Don’t talk,” Steve replied.  Bucky took up about half the bed on his knees as he was, so Steve sat at the foot, facing him.  He spread his legs, one foot on either side of Bucky’s knees.  The brunet surged forward, wanting to touch, but not daring to break the bonds.  

“Sit still and be good,” Steve told him, lifting one brow in warning.  He caressed the softness of his own belly with one hand--a distraction as he grabbed a bottle of lube with the other.  Bucky watched him intently, following the path of Steve’s fingers as they threaded through the tangle of his pubic hair and wrapped around the base of his cock.

Bucky groaned, sagging against the cuffs and the wall.  “Don’t torture me,” he begged.

“This is torture to you?” Steve asked, idly stroking his length.  “I told you to shut up.”  Steve flipped the cap on the lube.  Bucky quieted down with a pensive look on his face and gnawed on his lower lip as Steve jacked off for him.  Steve still disguised what he was doing with his other hand--until he couldn’t anymore.  He slicked both of his hands up, one still working his cock, the other toying with his asshole.  

“Please,” Bucky whimpered, throwing himself forward again.  Steve put the sole of his foot against his shoulder and pushed him back.  

“What did I say?” he asked.

“To shut up,” Bucky answered.  

Steve put his toes against Bucky’s chin.  “So?”

“Sorry, sir,” he replied.  His tongue briefly darted against the small digits.  Steve let his foot drop to Bucky’s chest as he spread his knees and pushed the tip of his finger inside himself.

It felt--weird.  Steve’s concentration faltered as he stared up at the ceiling, his brow furrowed.  He felt Bucky moan, the sound trapped in his chest and against the sole of his foot.  Steve pushed his finger in deeper, arching his back slightly.  He moaned, mostly for Bucky’s benefit.  His toes curled against the other’s chest.

“Put another one in,” Bucky urged.  The chains rattled.  Steve slammed him against the wall.

“You don’t want to rush me, Buck,” he said through clenched teeth, even as he did as he asked.

“I’m sorry--I’m sorry, I just-- want it.”

“At this rate, I’ll bring myself off and leave you to hang.”  Steve worked his fingers in and out of his entrance as he wrapped his thighs around Bucky’s hips.  The brunet was trembling, pulled taut like a violin string.  Steve glanced at his face; sweat and tears ran down his cheeks.  Enough was enough, he supposed.  

He got up and unhooked Bucky from the wall.  He wavered, unsure, until Steve gently pushed him down on the bed.  His wrists twisted in the cuffs so that he was holding his hands out in front of him.  Steve decided not to free him.

“You’d better be hard for me,” he told him, touching Bucky’s cock for the first time that night.  It was more than hard; it almost seemed painful.  “Oh, you can talk now, by the way.”

Bucky’s chest started to heave.  “I’m tryin’ not to come; I really am--I dunno if I can take it--”

“Shh,” Steve said, cupping Bucky’s face in his hands.  “Take a deep breath with me, okay?  In and out, slow, like this.”  He demonstrated, and Bucky put his hands on Steve’s chest.  Soon, they were breathing together, and Bucky looked less frantic.

“That was cruel of me, wasn’t it?  Letting you get so worked up when you haven’t had relief in so long.”  Steve wiped the tears from underneath Bucky’s eyes with his thumbs.  “What’s my name?”

“Sir,” Bucky breathed.  The tension eased out of his frame slowly, and Steve reached behind him to stroke the other man’s length--not that he needed much fluffing.  Steve slicked him up positioned him at the tight pucker of flesh that, before today, had remained largely untouched.  He honestly couldn’t say that he expected to have another man inside him under these circumstances: a man with no past and inhuman strength writhing underneath him, music from the club beating at the door, satin sheets underneath them.

Steve lowered himself down, gritting his teeth against the pain as Bucky’s head breached him.  The brunet tossed his head, strands of dark hair webbing his lips and clinging to his damp forehead.  He broke the handcuffs as though they were tin foil to grip Steve’s hips.

Honestly, he was grateful for a little support as he eased himself down.  The feeling of being full was odd, foreign, but intensely satisfying.  Steve released the breath he’d been holding and reclaimed Bucky’s hands.  

“Now, now,” he teased, twining his fingers with Bucky’s as he tried rolling his hips.  He bit back a gasp; Bucky didn’t bother.  

“You haven’t been particularly good.  Why do you think you should be able to touch me?”

Bucky bit his already swollen lower lip and agonized over the question.

“I’m not a cruel man, baby, but you broke the handcuffs and keep talkin’ back.  What would you do?”

“I--I--”

“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.  I’m gonna give you one more chance, but you gotta make it worth my time.  You gotta make me come like I’ve never come before, understand?  And every time you fuck up, I’m gonna hit you with this,” he said, taking down a cat o’ nine tails from the wall.  “Flip me over.”

Bucky gripped him hard by the ass and reversed their positions without sliding out of him.  Steve whimpered, almost losing his grip on the flog.  How was he supposed to be in charge when he was coming apart at the seams?

Bucky kissed his prominent collarbones and the thin skin over his sternum as he hitched Steve’s knees up around his chest.  The smaller man twisted his hand in Bucky’s hair and tugged.  Bucky pulled out, pressed the head of his cock against Steve’s asshole, and pushed back inside again.  Steve cried out and pulled harder.

“Oh, Jesus, baby.  You’re so good!  You feel so good inside me,” he sighed.

“Thank you, daddy,” Bucky murmured against his neck.  He started rocking into him gently.  It wasn’t enough--it wasn’t near enough.  

Steve swatted Bucky’s backside lightly with the flog.  “More!” he moaned.  Bucky started and fucked into him harder.  His metal fingers slipped between Steve’s lips; the blond man’s mouth filled with the taste of steel as he sucked on them.  Bucky wasn’t even doing anything wrong, but Steve whipped his ass anyway, spurring him on.

He came so explosively that Steve thought his heart might have stopped.  He saw black, then white, then nothing.  He felt Bucky stiffen on top of him as he came.  His come was hot inside him.  The flog slipped from his fingers as Steve slipped from consciousness.  

“Steve?”

“Steve!  Steve, stop playin’ around.  I said your name!  Wake up!”

“Steve, don’t do this--”

He heard Bucky from a distance, like he was on the other side of a long tunnel.  He wanted to respond, but his body wouldn’t obey.  Steve sunk lower into the darkness.

“Hey, man, if your boy’s OD’d, you gotta get him out of the bar before he dies.  I’m not having another one in the bar,” a strange voice said.

“Steve!”

Bucky slapped him hard.  Steve lifted a hand to fend him off, only for his wrist to be grasped by the other man.  His eyes fluttered open.  Bucky’s face swam in and out of his vision.

“Oh, God, Steve, are you okay?  What happened?  Do I need to get more pills?”

“I’m fine.  It was just a little faint,” Steve muttered.  He sat up and almost blacked out again.   Bucky braced him with one arm and brushed the hair out of his face.

“Scared the shit out of me, baby,” Bucky said with a shaky smile.  

“I’m okay,” Steve repeated.  “Was it good for you?”

He laughed with that same uneasiness.  “The best,” he replied.

“Can you help me--” the blond gestured towards the pile of his clothes on the floor.  Bucky settled him on the mattress before grabbing their things.  Even though his backside was bruised and bleeding a little, Bucky moved quickly.  Steve dressed with his assistance, and Bucky tossed his things on before following him out--letting Steve wear his shirt, since his was in shreds somewhere.  He put his metal arm around the smaller man’s waist to keep him on his feet.

The air outside of the club was damp, but cool.  Steve breathed deeply and let his head clear.  Bucky kissed the soft hair at the other man’s temple. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, really,” Steve laughed.  “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

Bucky fidgeted a little against his side before stepping away to hail a cab.  Steve wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered.  

“Did you mean what you said?” Bucky asked, opening the door of the cab for him.

“What did I say?” Steve asked, as if he didn’t know to what Bucky was referring.  He climbed in, but when the driver asked him where he was going, he had no answer.  Bucky gave him the address of a hotel (with no regard to Natasha and where she might be).

“I’ve been here before--in the seventies I think,” he explained.  “Did you mean what you said when you told me you loved me, or was it just your dick talkin’?”

“I dunno,” Steve replied, rubbing his upper arms briskly.  “I think I do.  Yes.”  He nodded, making up his mind.  The feeling, almost like physical pain in his chest, had to be love.  He was terrified when he thought of Bucky going away or finding someone else.  Even though his intensity scared Steve, he couldn’t leave him.  He didn’t want to.  He couldn’t understand why anyone would, especially his family.

Bucky nodded as well and wrung his hands in his lap.  “You don’t have to--ya know--spare my feelings.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Steve replied, looking at his own reflection in the window.

“Then I’m glad,” Bucky said, taking his hand.  The blond watched as a small smile appeared on his face.

 

* * *

 

Natasha spat blood onto the carpet of the moderately upscale hotel she had chosen for the three of them.  She was sure that the boys were wondering where she was by now, but the HYDRA agents that had tied her to a chair had thrown a wrench in those plans.  She didn’t know how they had tracked them, seeing as she had disabled every tracking device on James and in the van.  She was sure the brunet would have noticed if Steve was hiding a GPS implant up his butt.

“One more time: where is the asset?” a masked man demanded.  

“One more time,” she repeated, “I don’t know.  Probably fucking his way through the Castro.  Have you checked every leather bar in San Francisco?  You’ll get lucky eventually.”

“Watch your mouth, bitch.”  He slapped her lightly on her already sore cheek, and Natasha ran her tongue over her teeth.  She had had about enough fucking around already--calling her a bitch was really the last straw.  She freed her hand from the rope she had loosened some time ago and punched the man closest to her in the ear.  Using the forward momentum, she got to her feet and swung the chair at him using the hand that was still tied to it.  The shards from its remains became weapons as she systematically took out each of the agents who interrupted her bath.  Then she got dressed.

  
She had to find Steve and James.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dubious issues with consent in this chapter! Beware!
> 
> And this is going to be longer than I thought.

Natasha first met James Barnes sometime in the sixties, as far as she could reckon. She was only told what she needed to know: his name (including his codename) and her mission, which was to seduce him. James had been a test for her, there in the Red Room, not the other way around.   
  
And she had done it, too, though it had taken exploiting his every weakness--which was how she learned about his penchant for submission. Really, even brainwashed, James had been very sweet.  Malleable, even.  It had been hard for her to believe he was the legendary Winter Soldier with over a hundred confirmed kills. Natasha felt genuinely bad for what happened to him and what he had become, although she herself was a Black Widow.   
  
She was glad it was someone like Steve who had rescued him and brought him back. There was little doubt in her mind that Steve could handle James--probably  _ only _ someone like Steve could handle him.   
  
So when HYDRA showed up in San Francisco, she chalked it up to bad luck.

Natasha took the van to the Castro where she dropped the boys off.  She knew they wouldn’t have gone far, but it wasn’t as though there was a dearth of gay clubs on this particular corner either.  Still, it shouldn’t be hard to find a man with a metal arm, even in the middle of a gay Mecca.

And, judging by the screams coming from the aptly named Second Skin, her job would be especially easy.  Natasha ran towards the screams, against the crowd, ignoring the pain in her wrists.

What she found made her throat constrict: an overturned cab, shattered safety glass, and James--the back of him, anyway, as he chased after a retreating sedan.

* * *

 

Steve woke in agony.  He remembered very little about the past twenty-four hours.  Bucky had been holding hands in the back of a cab when it had been hit hard and knocked onto its side.  Bucky had shielded him from most of the impact and broken glass, but he hadn’t been able to keep the HYDRA agents from pulling Steve out of the wreckage.  Steve had hesitated to draw his weapon in public and that decided it for him; Bucky had no such compunctions and took out at least three of them before being overwhelmed.  Steve got crammed into the trunk of a car and that was that.  He woke up here.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; it felt gritty, so he knew he’d been drugged.   _ That  _ was definitely a concern, considering his faint earlier and possible interactions with his medications.  He felt like shit, but it was hard to say whether it was from the drugs or being stuffed in a trunk for who knows how long.

He hoped they didn’t have Bucky.  He’d rather it just be him.  But he also knew the chances of that were very small.

Steve tried to roll onto his side to relieve some of the pressure on his spine, but couldn’t.  He was tied down--to a surgical table, no less, in a dirty cell that looked like it might once have been an operating theater.  He swallowed against his rising panic and, perhaps more strongly, his rage.  Steve wasn’t one to use much colorful language, but he found himself spewing curses that would have made his father proud until his voice gave out.  It felt like hours passed.  Had they just tied him up here and left him to rot?  What were they doing to Bucky?  Was that why no one came?

The straps around his chest, wrists, ankles, and thighs were padded leather, but they still wore against his skin when he struggled.  Steve noted distantly that he was naked.  He wished he still had Bucky’s shirt at least.  It would smell like him.

Long after he wore himself out screaming and he was starting to feel weak and shivery, the door opened and a man wearing a white coat (who was definitely not a doctor) entered.  Steve turned his head and croaked, “Well, what the fuck?”

“Steven Rogers.  Pleased to meet you.  I’m Dr. Speransky.” 

Steve gave him a not at all genuine smile.  “And what is your specialty, doctor?”

“Psychiatry,” he answered with a tight smile of his own. 

“And what the  _ fuck  _ does that have to do with me?  Specifically, what does that have to do with me being tied to a  _ GODDAMN TABLE? _ ”  He slammed his fists down against the stainless steel, which didn’t make the satisfying noise he wanted, which, in turn, just made him angrier.

“Would you say you often struggle with your temper, Steve?” Dr. Speransky asked.

Steve shouted in frustration.  “Where is Bucky?  Where is James Barnes?!”

“He’s not here, but I imagine he soon will be.  Hopefully we’ll be done with you by then, eh?”  The man slapped Steve’s shoulder like they were old friends.

“Don’t fucking touch me!  I swear to Christ, I’ll kill you.  I’ll kill you and shove that hand down your throat!”

Dr. Speransky took a capped hypodermic from the pocket of his coat, pulled the cap off with his teeth, and tapped the air out.  

“What is that?  What are you doing with that?” Steve asked, eyes wide.

“Just something to calm you down,” he replied.

“Are you trying to kill me?  Benzos will interact with my other medications--”

“This isn’t a benzodiazepine.  And I know about your other medications.  You’ll be fine,” Dr. Speransky said softly in that I’m-a-doctor-voice Steve hated.  He turned Steve’s arm in the cuff and exposed his tender inner arm.  The hypodermic slid into his vein; Steve tasted metal at the back of his mouth before he sagged against the table.  His vision softened and blurred.  Suddenly, he felt very amenable.  To just about anything.

“Oh,” he sighed.  “I feel like I’m peeing.  Am I peeing?”

“No, Steven, but do let me know if you have to relieve yourself.  I’m going to give you a strong hallucinogenic now, okay?”

“Huh?  Oh, sure,” Steve sighed.

Dr. Speransky started an IV line in his arm after wheeling a stand over.  Again, Steve tasted something foul at the back of his throat before drifting on the wave of narcotics.

“I am going to break your mind,” the doctor said mildly.  “The powers that be decided--quite rightly, I believe--that the Winter Soldier and you will work beautifully as a team.” 

Steve saw swirling, abstract shapes behind his eyelids: scarlet and magenta fields with electric silver webbing.  The Winter Soldier--that was Bucky.  Bucky with blue eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass.  His mouth felt dry again.

“I’m afraid this is going to hurt.  A lot.”

Fire flowed through his veins.  Steve sucked in his breath in a gasp and then released it as a scream.  The sound reverberated in his skull until he thought it was going to shake apart.  His addled brain seized the idea; his bones turned to dust under the onslaught of pain until he was melting off the sides of the table and reforming into something new, something different.

“Unfortunately, the effects of the serum are unpredictable.  In the forties, we were surprised that Barnes survived at all, let alone with positive effects.  We have refined it, but in someone with your health issues, it  _ is  _ something of a crapshoot.”

Steve made a high, keening noise deep in his chest.

“The pain and the hallucinogenic will work together to break you.  I’m going to leave you now, Steven.  And I’m shutting off the lights.  Someone will be in to check on you in a few hours.” 

And then he was alone, alone and swirling into madness, with only his screams to keep him company.

 

* * *

  

Steve had no idea where or who he was.  He didn’t know how long he’d been here in this facility, but it seemed like a long time.  There was someone he was supposed to be concerned about, but who?  They finally let him up from the table and gave him his own room.  He was grateful for that much, at least.  He got to wear soft cotton pajamas and curl up in bed whenever he wanted--except for the times he was in the chair.  He hated that thing.  Every time they lifted him out of it, it seemed like he left something behind.  His thoughts were in turmoil.  He couldn’t hold onto one thing for any length of time.  Dr. Speransky gave him regular injections of the anti-anxiety medication, which kept him docile.  It was only during his nightmares that he woke to find his room in ruins.  The damage, bent aluminum bars, torn sheets, claw marks in the door, scared him.  Steve couldn’t connect the dots; he had no idea that he’d done the damage or that he was even capable of it.  The men in charge didn’t tell him, either.

It was only after they had completely broken him down that they started to rebuild him.

Days must have passed while Steve just laid in bed and stared at the wall.  At some point, a man came in, picked him up, and put him in the bath.  He was washed, groomed, and carried to the chair.  When Dr. Speransky entered the chamber, Steve held out his arm like he’d been taught.  The usual cocktail of hallucinogens and sedatives was pumped into his veins, and the visor was lowered over his eyes once he was strapped in the chair.

Then he remembered what they allowed him to remember.

* * *

  

It took Bucky four miserable months to track down the HYDRA base where they were keeping Steve.  In retrospect, it might have been better to team up with Natasha, but after they were ambushed in San Francisco, he couldn’t trust her.  How had they found them so quickly?  He didn’t have time to investigate a rat; if he was going to get Steve back, he was going to have to do it himself.

He came prepared to the base underneath Washington DC with as many guns, knives, and rounds of ammo he could carry on his person.  Bucky was prepared to blow the whole damn thing to hell if he had to.  He knew too well the horrors they could be inflicting on Steve--and it was his fault.  Everything that they did to him was his responsibility.  

So when he was met with exactly no one when he burst into the base, he was oddly disappointed.  He wanted blood.  He wanted them to suffer.  But the halls were empty.  

Still, Bucky proceeded carefully, a gun in one hand, knife in the other.  When a man in a white lab coat finally stepped into his path, Bucky almost lost control and stabbed him in the neck before getting information from him.

“Where’s Steve?” he demanded.

“Right this way, sir.  The director asked me to bring you to him,” the lackey said, pointing further down the hall.  The knot of dread in Bucky’s stomach tightened.  What had they done to him?  What if he was already dead?  What if it was...worse?

Bucky followed the man until they came to what was clearly a medical bay.  His mind conjured up all sorts of horrors: Steve in pieces, a victim of human experimentation, rape--

God help them if they had touched him.

Inside, the medical bay looked like any second-tier hospital.  There were nurses in scrubs and orderlies wandering the halls, even a receptionist’s desk.  His guide took him to the furthest door from the entrance and pushed it open.  

Steve sat on an examination table in a pair of cotton pajamas two sizes too large.  He looked up when Bucky entered, and his whole face lit up.

“Buck!” he shouted, before launching himself into his arms.  Bucky dropped his knife and wrapped the smaller man tightly in his arms.  

“God, Stevie, are you alright?” he asked.

“I’m fine!  I missed you,” Steve replied, nuzzling his neck.  He pulled back after a second and said, “Oh, jeez, your stubble!”

Another man in a three-piece suit entered the already cramped room.  “Welcome back, soldier,” he said.  Bucky had the impression that they had met before.  He pushed Steve behind him and held his gun on the man.

“I’m not back.  I came to get Steve, and then we’re leaving,” he snarled.

“Are you sure?  Perhaps you should ask Steve what he wants.  Though we’ve been calling him Summer.”

Something twisted in Bucky’s gut as he bared his teeth.  “What did you do to him?”

The director smiled indulgently.  “Steve, please dispose of this man,” he said, waving his hand towards Bucky’s guide.

Faster than Bucky could track, Steve pulled the gun from the holster on Bucky’s opposite hip and fired from underneath his arm.  The guide grabbed his throat; blood spurted from between his fingers as he fell to his knees and then face down on the floor.  A pool of blood surrounded him in a widening radius.  Steve returned the gun to its spot and embraced Bucky from behind.  

Bucky couldn’t move.

The director nudged the dying man with the toe of his Italian leather loafer.  “Brainwashing techniques in your time were primitive at best, Barnes.  They damaged your mind.  Erased everything--or tried to, in any case.  It was only a matter of time before you regained yourself.  With Steve here, we used a different, more refined technique.  We programmed him to be loyal to you.  We couldn’t let him forget how much he loves you.  We just added in some failsafes.  Didn’t we, Summer?”

“Hail Hydra,” Steve replied softly, his voice muffled by Bucky’s shoulder blades.

“See?  He’s perfection.  Fast, healthy, strong.  The perfect companion for the Winter Soldier.  The two of you will be unstoppable.”

“He was perfect before,” Bucky gritted out.

The director shrugged.  

Bucky turned and took Steve’s face in his hands.  Steve stared back at him openly, no hint of guilt for killing a man.  Nothing but expectation.  Bucky could feel something breaking in his chest.  This wasn’t Steve.

“C’mon, Stevie.  Let’s go home, okay?  Let’s go to Brooklyn.  Remember Sam?  Natasha?  They’re worried about you, baby.”  He pulled on Steve’s hand, but the smaller man didn’t budge.

“Then they can come here.  Stay with me, Buck.  I’ve missed you,” he replied.  He padded barefoot through the dying man’s blood and hopped back up on the examination table.  Bucky wavered between him and the door, his gaze fixated on the small bloody footprints on the floor. 

“I’m going to offer you a deal, Barnes.  Stay here with him.  He’s unstable without you; we made him that way.  He’ll hurt himself.  Watch.”  He turned to Steve, who was picking at his fingernails.  “Summer, Winter isn’t going to stay.  He doesn’t want to be here with you.”

Steve’s brow furrowed.  “He doesn’t want me?” he asked, looking at Bucky.

“No, I--”

“He’s going to leave, Summer.”

Steve pushed a hand through his tousled hair and pulled.  “Forever?” he asked.

“He’s not coming back,” the director confirmed.  Bucky wanted to kill him so badly in that moment, but he was afraid of what that might do to Steve.  He was already pulling at his clothes, his fingers twisting and clenching.  He slipped off the table and stood in front of Bucky, keeping his eyes averted the whole time.  Then he knelt.

“Kill me first,” he demanded, pulling a knife from Bucky’s boot and holding it to his neck.  He snatched the brunet’s other hand and held it to the hilt.

“Steve, no!  Jesus, stop it!” Bucky shouted, pulling his hand back.  

“Then I’ll do it myself,” he replied, pushing the blade in.  Bucky tackled him to the floor before he was able to draw it across his throat.  Steve struggled against him briefly, just long enough for Bucky to realize how strong he was now.  He slammed Steve’s hand against the floor until he dropped the knife.  He heard bones crack before the blond gave it up.

“What are you doing?!” Bucky screamed at him.  The cut on Steve’s neck had already scabbed over.

“I told you.  He’s unstable.  He needs you.  What are you going to do?” the director asked.

“You ask that like you’re giving me a choice,” Bucky snapped.  He had Steve’s wrists pinned to the floor, though he wasn’t fighting him anymore.  He was staring into nothing, breathing unevenly.

“I am.  You can leave at any time.  But Steve won’t be coming with you, I’m afraid.”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped in defeat.  

“I’m glad you see it our way.  Summer, show him to your rooms.”

Steve snapped out of whatever trance he had slipped into.  His broken hand seemed not to bother him as Bucky helped him to his feet.  “This way,” Steve said, taking Bucky’s hand with a beautiful, but empty smile.   

Bucky just followed.

Outside of the medical bay, there were small apartments.  Steve led him to the only one that locked from the outside and showed him in.  There was a full-sized bed with a blue coverlet, a nightstand, dresser, and a wingback reading chair.  A small pile of books sat on top of the nightstand, mostly dogeared paperbacks.  When he looked back at Steve, he had stripped out of his blood-stained pajamas.

“I’m gonna take a shower.  D’you want to join me?” Steve asked.  

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky agreed.  It was clear that it wasn’t just going to whisk Steve away.  He would have to work on him.  If Bucky could be broken out of fifty years of brainwashing, surely, he could do the same to Steve--maybe with Natasha, or Sam, or  _ anyone _ …

The tap turned on in the other room, and Bucky stripped out of his tactical gear and laid it over the chair before joining Steve.  He was already under the spray, determinedly setting the finger bones Bucky had broken.  For a second, he thought he was going to vomit.

Steve looked up when he entered.  “Your hair is really long now,” he said softly.  “I don’t think I can braid it for you right now, though.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky said tersely.

“Will you help me with mine?” Steve asked.  Someone had maintained the fade he’d gotten in Wichita.  Bucky grabbed a bottle of shampoo and poured some into his flesh hand before roughly working it into Steve’s scalp.

“Ow!” he yelped.  “Why are you bein’ so rough?  Are you mad at me?”

“No, sorry.  I just don’t know my own strength, I guess,” Bucky replied lamely.

Steve turned around with narrow eyes and a mischievous smile.  He put his arms around Bucky’s waist and brought their bodies together.  “I missed you,” he said again.  Steve’s growing erection pressed Bucky’s hip.

Bucky pushed him away.  “Just get the blood off you,” he snapped.  He couldn’t.  Not with Steve like this.  He  _ wouldn’t _ .  

Steve looked like Bucky had pulled a gun on him.  “O-Okay,” he stammered, and went back to washing.  Bucky kept his eyes on his own feet until they traded places under the water.  Steve put his arms around himself and shivered.

“Get out if you’re cold!” Bucky growled, and Steve jumped and scurried out of the shower stall without speaking.  

After was done washing away a week’s worth of grime, he stepped into the bedroom.  Steve had redressed in a clean pair of pajamas (Bucky supposed that was all they gave him to wear) and curled up on the bed, facing away from him.  Bucky tore the dresser drawer open and wasn’t surprised to find matching clothes in his size.  He stepped into a pair of pants and sat down in the chair, as far away from Steve as he could get.

Objectively, Bucky knew Steve was hurting.  Everything hinged on Bucky for him now.  He didn’t understand why Bucky was pushing him away, just as Bucky hadn’t understood some months before.  Steve hadn’t left him then.  With a huge sigh, Bucky got up and sat down next to him. 

“Let me see your neck and hand,” he said softly.  Steve obediently sat up and bared his neck.  Bucky ran his finger over the healing cut before looking at the blond’s hand.  It was swollen, but he was no nurse.  “Doesn’t it hurt?” he asked.

“Yeah, but it’ll go away.  It always does.”  The light had gone out of Steve’s eyes.  He looked defeated.  What had happened to his anger?  His righteous fury?  Bucky couldn’t imagine having to pick this pathetic creature up to keep him from coming to blows with an old lady.  

“What do you remember?  How long do you think you’ve been here?” he asked.

A line appeared between Steve’s brows.  “I dunno.  I’ve always been here,” he replied.

“You don’t remember how we met?”

“We’ve always been together,” Steve answered.

“We’ve known each other a few months.”

The blond shook his head slowly.  “Don’t be dumb, Buck.  We grew up together.”

“No, we didn’t.  I was born in 1917.  You were born in 1967,” Bucky told him.

Steve shook his head again.  “Why are you saying these things?  And why won’t you let me touch you?”  He tried again to slide into Bucky’s lap, but the brunet shoved him away. 

“Stop it, Steve.  You’re not yourself.” 

“Yes, I am!” he shouted back, climbing on top of Bucky and shoving him down onto the bed, broken hand and all.  “What happened?  What did I do?  Touch me,” he begged, trying and failing to capture Bucky’s hands. 

“No!  God, it’s like rape, Steve.  I can’t,” he replied, noticing the mag-cuffs above the bed.  Apparently, Steve had tried to fight them--at least enough for them to install failsafes.  Good.

He grabbed Steve’s wrist and shackled him to the wall.  He was stronger now, but he didn’t resist.  Steve looked at what Bucky had done in horror, and then collapsed beside him, his one good hand pinioned above his head.  Bucky was prepared when the tears came, but it still broke his heart.  Steve thought they had been best friends and lovers their whole lives, and suddenly Bucky came back and rejected him.  Violently.  He had every reason to cry.

Bucky went back to the chair.  He didn’t trust himself to comfort Steve, not when he wanted to touch him just as much as Steve wanted it.  Steve continued to cry and pull at the cuff trying to reach out to him.

It went on for about five minutes, the pain in Bucky’s chest intensifying the longer Steve begged to be forgiven and for Bucky to come back to bed.  Then the door opened and another doctor appeared.  This one seemed different--older, for one.  Steve calmed somewhat when he saw him and offered up his arm.

The doctor plunged a hypodermic into Steve’s vein, and the blond curled up on his side and seemed to doze off.  Then the doctor turned to Bucky.

“You are a cruel man, Barnes.  You may think you’re doing the right thing by keeping your distance, but you’re killing him.  He has no idea his thoughts have been tampered with.  He still loves you.  We didn’t change that.”

“Get the fuck out,” Bucky snarled.  “I’ll fix him, and then I’ll kill all of you.  You first.”

“If you try and take him from here without his handler’s permission--that’s me, by the way--he’ll collapse in on himself.  Think of it like an explosive collar around his neck,” the man said.

“I said, get out!”

The man lifted his hands in defeat and left a few syringes on the dresser.  “In case you decide to torture him more,” he said.

As soon as the man left, Bucky got up and released Steve from the cuff.  Steve wasn’t exactly asleep, he saw; it was more like he was in a trance.  Bucky settled against the headboard and positioned Steve between his spread legs so that he was resting half on top of him.  Bucky stroked his hair.  

“Don’t worry.  We’ll get you better, Stevie.  I have a plan.  Don’t worry.”

In retrospect, he was trying to reassure himself more than Steve.

 

* * *

  

Steve shook off the effects of the sedative a few hours later and found himself cradled against Bucky’s body.  He exhaled softly, perfectly content.  The four months Bucky was away on mission had been brutal on him.  And to have him come back so upset--

Well, no matter now.  Everything seemed to be back to normal.  

Steve chanced a look up at Bucky’s face to gauge his mood.  He seemed to be lost in thought--surely he must be tired?  Was Steve hogging the bed?

Steve sat up and stroked Bucky’s stubbled cheek.  “Hey, sweetheart, don’t you need to lay down?” he asked.

“It’s okay, baby.  I’m sorry I came back in such a bad mood.  That last mission, it got me all mixed up.  The doctors got me all sorted out, though,” he said.  He pushed Steve’s hair out of his face, and Steve turned his face toward his hand. 

“Oh, good.  Dr. Speransky is good at that.”  

“Yeah, he’s a real great guy.”  

Steve picked up something in Bucky’s voice, but decided to ignore it.  He remembered too well how Bucky had shoved him away and shackled him to the bed, so he hesitated to touch him.  Steve remained kneeling between Bucky’s legs and pushed his pajamas back up on his shoulder.  

“Hey, come here,” Bucky said, and pulled Steve into his arms.  “I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too, Buck,” Steve replied, practically radiating happiness.  He nuzzled Bucky’s shoulder and climbed into his lap.  Bucky held him so close that it would have hurt if Steve hadn’t been modified by the serum.  

“Do you want to make love?” Steve asked softly.  He did--Christ, so desperately.  He ached for it so badly it was like a physical pain inside him.  Even just a good fingering-- 

“No, I--I can’t,” Bucky stammered.  “Something happened on that mission.  The doctors said that impotence is a side effect of what they used on me.  We’ll have to wait.” 

“B-But--” Steve stuttered, his face burning.  “Could you at least…?”  He gestured downwards.

“Why?  You can’t bring yourself off?” Bucky asked.  He was blushing as well and looking anywhere but at Steve.

Steve moved off of the other’s lap.  “I guess I could try.  It’s just usually--well, it’s not important.  I guess we need to get to the debriefing for our next assignment soon anyway.”  He flopped down on the bed next to him.  

“What is the next assignment?” Bucky asked.

“Removal and extraction.  Business as usual,” Steve mumbled.

“Who’s the target?”

“Don’t know.  I haven’t received the dossier yet.”

“Don’t pout, Stevie.  It’s cruel to ask me to have sex with you when I can’t get hard enough to come.”

“I know,” Steve huffed, rolling onto his stomach.  Bucky rubbed his back, which just made the ache in Steve’s groin more insistent.  He wiggled against the mattress, trying to get relief.  “Please,” he muttered into the pillow.  

Behind him, Bucky was gnawing on his lower lip.  Of course he wanted Steve.  But it was wrong to have him like this, no matter how much he pleaded, because he wasn’t himself, right?  Even if he probably would agree under normal circumstances.  Bucky rubbed his lower back and slipped his fingers underneath the waistband of Steve’s pajamas against his better judgement.  He circled the end of his tailbone before drawing his hand back and slipping two of his fingers in his mouth.

“Oh, Buck,” Steve moaned.

Bucky fingered the downy cleft of Steve’s ass with damp fingers until he found his asshole.  He slipped his middle finger inside of him with surprising ease, which made Bucky’s stomach flip.  Had they--did they touch him?  

Still, Steve moaned and alternated between grinding against the bed and fucking himself on Bucky’s fingers.  

“Thank you, thank you,” Steve sighed, his motion becoming more and more erratic.  A second later he was coming, his fingers twisting in the sheets.  Bucky withdrew his hand and wiped it on leg.  He felt filthy, even though Steve was happily clutching his thigh.

“When--when I was gone, did anyone touch you like that?” Bucky asked softly.

“Hm?  What do you mean, did I cheat on you?”  Steve lifted his head, looking up at him incredulously.  “Of course, I didn’t!  You know you’re the only one who can make me come.”  Steve pillowed his head in his arms.  “I can’t even jerk off.”

“Oh,” Bucky replied.  That wasn’t good, either.  Bucky got up and made for the bathroom before Steve could follow him.

After he was done puking his guts out, he was able to hear Steve tapping at the door.  “Are you okay?  Should I get Dr. Speransky?”

“No!  It’s just the drugs they gave me.  He--He knows about it.  Just give me a minute!”  Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose.  He was trying hard not to get angry and knock Steve across the room, but it was difficult.  He didn’t know if he was going to last long enough to get Steve out of here.

Bucky eventually came out.  Steve smiled up at him warily and moved aside.  

A few hours later, they were called into a briefing.  Bucky redressed in his tactical gear, and Steve put on one of his own, dark blue and form-fitting.  It looked good on him, Bucky had to admit.   

Their target was some minor politician in Bucharest, a place Bucky had never been to.  He supposed that was the point--they didn’t want him having an edge.  The director gave both of them dossiers, and Steve returned to their room.  Bucky was held back.

“If anything happens to him or the mission, you will be destroyed.  Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Bucky replied, narrowing his eyes.

“Good.  Dismissed.”  

The plane left DC in the early morning.  Steve slept against Bucky’s side, despite having a veritable arsenal strapped around his hips.  Bucky had made sure he had everything he needed, too.   

When they landed in Bucharest, they found their hostel and settled in.  Their weapons were stashed and civilian clothes brought out.  Their target’s schedule was included in the dossier.  The best time to make the hit would be tomorrow around three o’clock, so Bucky had to make sure he had everything in place before then.  

“You want to go sight-seeing?” Steve asked him, spots of color high on his cheeks.  It was like he was on vacation, not an assassination mission.

“Sure, I’ll be right down,” Bucky replied.  The blond left the room and Bucky rushed to the phone.  He dialed the New York number and waited for it to connect.

“It is seven in the morning, man!  This better be important!” a distant voice said from the other end.

“Sam Wilson?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah?”

“Alright, you probably don’t remember me.  I was in Steve Roger’s apartment a few months back.  I was going to shoot you.”

“Oh, how could I have possibly forgotten the dead Russians in the hallway?  What do you want, pretty boy?”

“I’m in Romania.  Steve is in trouble.  He’s been brainwashed by the people who had me.  He’s going to kill someone.  He said you were a counselor, right?  I thought maybe you could help--”

“Steve’s been  _ brainwashed _ ?” Sam repeated.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time.  If you think you can help, I got you a ticket to Bucharest at the Delta counter in LaGuardia.  We’re staying at the Byzanthin.  I have to go.  Please, Sam.”

“Wait--”

Bucky hung up the phone and ran down the stairs to meet Steve outside.  He looked perfect in his pegged jeans and loose, linen shirt.  He waved up at Bucky as he descended the stairs.  Bucky smiled down at him and put his arm around his shoulders.

It wasn’t hard to fake having a good time with Steve.  Bucky spoke over twelve languages and acted as translator for him, even haggled for trinkets in the bazaar.  He got him a gaudy, aluminum locket and put it around Steve’s neck.

“It’s really beautiful here.  I wish I had my sketchbook,” Steve gushed, fingering the locket.

“You draw?” Bucky asked, and Steve stopped in his tracks.  His brow furrowed.  

“Why did I say that?  I guess I just meant I wish I had any sketchbook so I could try,” Steve replied.  He took a few steps to catch up with Bucky, but his expression remained troubled.  Bucky took it as a good sign.  It would be at least twelve hours until Sam arrived.  Until then, he had to keep Steve occupied and try to trigger as many memories as possible.

Bucky took his hand and swung it back and forth.  “Some of these old little buildings remind me of parts of San Francisco.  You remember our mission there?” he asked.

Steve frowned.  “I don’t know.  When was that?”

“Not too long ago.  We finished and ended up in that bar--the Second Skin.  We went to one of the upstairs rooms and you tied me up, spanked me with a riding crop.  How could you forget?” 

“I--I didn’t forget,” the blond stammered.  He was clearly scrambling for a memory that wasn’t there.  

“I called you daddy, remember?” Bucky asked, leaning in close to his ear.  

“I remember  _ that _ ,” Steve said softly, turning to him with a smile.  “I liked that.  I liked that a lot.”  He slipped his arm around Bucky’s waist and drew him close.  “You were so good for me that night.  Fucked me so hard I blacked out.”

Bucky’s heart leapt!  Somewhere, buried underneath the brainwashing, he remembered.

That night, after a hearty supper and lots of red wine, they returned to the hostel.  Neither one of them could feel the effects of the alcohol anymore, but it warmed the belly just the same.  They tumbled into bed with their arms around each other, laughing.  Steve landed on top of Bucky, his eyes shining in the dim light of the lantern.  He pressed his lips against Bucky’s neck while his hand snaked down his abdomen to cup him through his jeans.

“You think you can get hard?” he asked softly.

Bucky agonized.  All day, Steve had been like Steve, except for the moments when he encountered a hole in his memory.  While Bucky thought that Steve would agree if it were just the two of them on a romantic getaway, that wasn’t exactly what this was, was it?  But he was already getting hard under Steve’s nimble fingers.

“Buck,” he murmured against his skin.  His tongue flashed against Bucky’s pulse, and the brunet groaned.

“Let me bring you off, at least,” Steve said, perhaps sensing the other man’s discomfort.  

“I dunno, Stevie,” he replied.  He wriggled underneath him, but that seemed to set the other man off.  His eyes went dark, and he wet his lips.  “Hey, pretty baby, c’mon,” he said.  Brooklyn was thick in his voice.

Bucky’s resolve turned to ash.  He couldn’t participate in this, but he couldn’t hurt Steve, either.

“Do what you want,” Bucky replied.  He couldn’t think of a way out of this.

“Don’t be like that,” Steve sighed.  He leaned over the side of the bed and fished out a pair of cuffs.  These weren’t steel; they were the same mag-cuffs from the base.  Steve slapped them on Bucky’s wrists and then joined them together.  Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and imagined he were someplace else while Steve did his damnedest to make love to him.

And it wasn’t as though he were doing a bad job of things.  He said the right words and touched the right places.  An occasional moan escaped Bucky, but it felt wrong.  

A knock on the door saved him.  Steve pulled a gun from under the pillow and aimed it at the door, his eyes suddenly hard and glinting.

“Yes?” Steve demanded.

“It’s Sam, open up!”

“Come in!” Bucky shouted back.  Steve looked down at Bucky in confusion.  

“Is this a handler?” he hissed.

“Yes, he’s going to aid us.  Put your gun away and let me up.”  

Steve’s lip curled dubiously as he stashed the gun back underneath the pillow before unlocking the cuffs.  Bucky put his clothes back on and answered the door.  To his great relief, it really was Sam.  “Thank you for coming,” he said.  “Please be careful around him.”

Steve had settled back against the pillows, his arms folded over his chest.  He looked like a man with a serious case of blue balls.  

Sam lifted a brow as he studied Steve.  He turned back to Bucky with an inscrutable look.  “That’s definitely not Steve,” he whispered.

“I know.  You have to help me fix what they did.  They gave him drugs, sedatives, hallucinogens.  He thinks the two of us grew up together in DC.  He doesn’t remember anything else.  He doesn’t remember you.”

Sam ran a hand over his head.  “If what you’re telling me is true, it ain’t a quick fix, man.”

“Please,” Bucky begged, “please, help him.”

The tall man shrugged.  “I’ll do my best.  You have a plan to get him off the grid?”

“Sort of?”

“Great,” Sam said dryly, eyeing Bucky before he came over to Steve on the bed.  He sat down beside him, but didn’t touch him.

“Hey, Steve,” he said.

“Call me Summer,” Steve replied coolly.  “This is Winter.”  He gestured toward Bucky.

“O-okay,” Sam answered.  Bucky retreated into the corner of the room to give them space.

“Alright, Summer.  Mission report,” Sam demanded gently.

“Target is Gheorghe Funar, leader of the Romanian National Unity Party.  Inside intel tells us that the target takes tea every day at a cafe on the corner of Lipscani and Selari.  It has been decided that I will take the shot from Bucharest’s Pearl.  The director has requested that the shot be taken with as much attention as possible.  Winter will ensure safe extraction.”

“Thank you,” Sam replied.  He gave Bucky a look, and the brunet could only shrug helplessly.  

Sam pressed his lips into a firm line and briefly rubbed his eyes.  “Mission report, June 30, 1990.”

Steve frowned, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again.  

“Mission report, June 30, 1990,” Sam said more insistently.

“Ma died.  Ovarian cancer,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands.  He was wringing them so fiercely his knuckles popped.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Summer.  You grew up with Winter in DC.”

“Yes,” Steve replied, looking at Bucky like he was lost. 

“Then how were you there when your mother died in 1990?” Sam asked.

“I--”  Steve went very still and pale as he looked around the room for answers.  When he found nothing, his breath started to come in shallow pants.  His eyes rolled back in his head and he started to convulse.  Bucky rushed over to the bed with one of the hypodermics from Dr. Speransky had prepared.  He held Steve’s arm with his metal hand and slid the needle home.  After a few seconds, Steve calmed and sagged against the bed.

“What’d you give him?” Sam asked.

“A sedative.  Likely an anti-epileptic.  He’s prone to fits.  Unstable.  They twisted him all up inside.”

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth as he considered Steve’s limp, drooling form.  “I don’t think it’s as bad as it could be.  I mean, he’s under there.  He hasn’t  _ lost  _ any memories, they’re just buried underneath the programming.  He can pull them up if they’re accessed the right way.  How long was he gone?  A few months?  That’s probably not enough time to really do a number on him.”

“Sam.  I know we got off on the wrong foot--”

“To put it fucking mildly.”

“--but I need your help.  I can’t do this by myself.  Steve is--sexually needy, and I can’t--not when he’s like this.  I don’t know what to do.  Before you came in, I was going to let him--” 

“No.  You don’t let him do that to you.  You’re both compromised.  We gotta get both of you out of here.”

“I think I can help with that,” said a voice from the window.  Bucky blinked and Natasha was standing in the room.  “Bundle him up; let’s go.  I have a plane waiting.  Great plan by the way, genius,” she said, turning on Bucky. “You had to know they had the line tapped.  They know Tall Dark and Handsome is here.  You couldn't have at least gone to another hostel?  I thought you were a  _ spy. _ ”

“Handsome?” Sam repeated with a ridiculous grin.

“First of all, I'm an  _ assassin _ ,” Bucky replied.  A muscle in his jaw leapt when he gritted his teeth.

“And stupid in love,” Sam added.

“Can we go?  They were right behind me,” Natasha snapped.

Bucky sighed in frustration, lifted Steve from the bed, and slung him over his shoulder.  Natasha clicked her tongue.

“So in love he carries him like a sack of potatoes,” she said.

“What is this?  Shit on Bucky Day?  I can shoot like this!  Should I carry him bridal style?”

Footsteps coming up the stairs stopped whatever smart remark Sam had.  “Let's just get the hell out of here,” he said instead.  Bucky and Natasha slipped out the window with Sam stumbling after them.  Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, they went until there were no more roofs to leap. Sam was gasping for breath behind them as they finally jumped down into the street.  Natasha hotwired a car while Sam caught his breath.  Bucky shifted Steve in his arms so that he was cradling him.  He was still out of it, but he was starting to rouse.  Perhaps he should have brought the cuffs, but he couldn't stand to put Steve in them.  Again.

Bucky put Steve between himself and Sam in the backseat.  Natasha started the car.

“Mmn,” Steve groaned.  “Bucky, I don't feel well.”  He clutched at Bucky’s arm.  “My head hurts.  Do you have my pills?”

Bucky looked over his head at Sam.  Which Steve were they talking to?

Steve looked over at Sam.  He seemed to accept his presence without much fuss.  He pulled at Bucky’s sleeve.  “Did the mission go sideways?  I feel like garbage.”

“Yeah, baby, it went tits up.  Sam is acting as our handler.  We're working on extraction.  You had a seizure.”

“A seizure?” Steve repeated, rubbing his forehead.  

“Yeah.  Scared the shit out of me.  Just rest, okay?  We'll be home soon,” Bucky replied.  

Steve tucked himself under the other man's arm and cast another glance at Sam, as though he was trying to figure out from where he knew him.  Sam gave him one of his radiant smiles and patted Steve's knee.  Steve continued to stare.

“Were we undercover together?  Did you pretend to be my neighbor?” he finally asked.

“Rest, buddy,” Sam replied.

Steve frowned, but closed his eyes and slumped against Bucky anyway.

Natasha pulled around to the back of the airport.  There was a small airplane waiting, just as she said.  Once they were inside, they took up the same positions from the car.

“Where are we going?” Bucky asked softly, so Steve couldn't hear.

“Should I tell you?  You've been doing a terrible job of keeping intel to yourself.”

“Shut up, Nat,” he groaned.  If she weren't flying a plane, he would have kicked the back of her seat.  Her nagging was distracting, at least.  Perhaps that was the point.

“Hey, you can talk to me though, right?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“I know a guy.  He--might have agreed to help Steve, with certain conditions,” she said.

“What conditions?” Bucky asked.

“You, for one.  He collects people like us.  Like Steve.”

“What, like a goddamned zoo?” he grumbled, pulling Steve closer to him.  “Who is this ‘guy’?”

“Nick Fury.  He says he knows you,” Natasha said.

Bucky's scowl deepened.  “He does.  We served together.  Pulled him out of a shitstorm in Algiers.  He  _ hated  _ me.  Called me ‘Nancy.’  Exclusively.”  He remembered more, something about France (and a French woman) but it was vague, lost in shades of memory.

“Well, you are, aren't you?” Sam asked with a poorly concealed smile.

“So’s Steve, jackass,” Bucky snapped.  “I thought you kids these days were more sensitive than this.”

“Ugh, everyone shut up,” Steve groaned, squeezing his temples.

“Okay, okay,” Sam sighed.  Bucky was tempted to stick his tongue out at him.  Or shoot him.  He was torn.

They landed in Rome several hours later.  The first thing they had to do was get Bucky and Steve out of their tactical gear.  Steve drug his feet the entire time.  He still looked pale and wan, with dark circles under his eyes.  Bucky practically had to carry him through the shops.

“Where are we supposed to meet Fury?” Bucky asked.  He was just able to keep Steve standing.  They had to get him help soon, before his brains started leaking out of his ears. 

“Right here, Nancy,” a voice said.  A man sitting at a cafe table lowered his newspaper; sure enough, it was Fury, older and grayer now (and missing an eye), but Bucky would recognize that voice anywhere.  Bucky rolled his eyes before turning.

“Years have been kind to you,” Fury said dryly.

“Wouldn’t say that,” Bucky replied, “but yes, my face has been and always will be prettier than yours.  Thanks for noticing.”

“Please, Buck, I need to lie down.”  Steve took a step, tripped, and was barely caught in time by both men.

“By all means,” Fury replied.  “You can lie down on the quinjet.”

One uncomfortably cramped cab drive to the airport later, they boarded the jet.  Steve was taken to the medical wing and sedated once more.  “What’s wrong with him, anyway?  It wasn’t like this with me,” Bucky said.  

“Built in protocols,” Fury replied.  They gazed at Steve through a window in the hallway.  Nurses moved around him, prepping an IV.  “They didn’t have the tech to do implants back then.  My guess is subconsciously, Steve knows he’s off the grid.  Maybe he didn’t check in with a handler who could ‘disarm’ him with a codeword; maybe there’s a physical implant in his head.  In 1945, when the Soviets got a hold of you, all they could do was wipe your slate, and even that wasn’t very effective.  In any case, we need to do a thorough examination.  I’m sorry about your boy, Jimmy.”  The man turned to him and patted his shoulder.  

“Is that the first time you’ve called me by my name?” Bucky asked.

“Yep.”

“Dickhole.  But you’re going to take care of him, aren’t you?”

“He’s too valuable an asset to lose,” Fury replied.

  
The words sat heavily in Bucky’s stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://nothingamonth.tumblr.com) if you want. And this is shaping up to be...long.


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky sat in his boxers in front of the television for the third straight day.  A bowl of soggy Trix sat on his stomach as another rerun of _The Real World_ blared on the television set.  Fury had given them rooms in the same building that housed his government espionage program, SHIELD.  Steve was still in the basement medical bay.  The nurses told him to leave after the second night he slept there.  Steve was more or less in a medically-induced coma, and had been since they discovered that his brain was intact.   

His depression was not helped by the fact that Fury’s people had taken his arm.  It made it really hard to eat cereal, for one, and he kept falling into things because his center of gravity had long ago shifted to account for the weight of the metal appendage.  Bucky was told in no certain terms that he was too dangerous to be walking around SHIELD headquarters with a Soviet-made arm. 

Someone knocked on his door and he ignored it, chasing after the last of his Trix instead.  A second later, Sam and Natasha walked in.

Another thing that didn’t help his depression: these two attempting to flirt with one another.  Sam tried too hard and Natasha was just bad at it, like every line she ever heard was from a spy book.

“What do you idiots want?” he asked.

“They woke Steve up,” Sam replied, wasting no time.  “He’s asking for you.”

“Won’t speak to anyone else,” Natasha added.

Bucky was already getting to his feet, knocking his cereal to the floor.  He went stomping through them before Sam held his arm out and caught him around the waist.

“You might wanna get dressed first,” he said.

“Christ,” Bucky muttered and tromped into the bedroom where he never slept.  He put on the clothes they got in Rome and followed the two downstairs.  Thankfully, Sam and Natasha waited outside while Bucky went into Steve’s room.

Steve was sitting up in the hospital bed, frowning down at his hands.  Bucky hesitated.

“H-Hey, baby,” he stammered.  Would Steve know him?  What if they had to wipe him, like they had him?  

“Hey, Buck,” Steve replied lightly.  His tone did not match his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“I have to apologize.  They tell me what I know--what I remember--never really happened.  That we didn’t grow up together in the DC base.  That means that when--in bed--you--”

“Oh, baby.  Don’t beat yourself up over it.  I woulda rolled you in a heartbeat if you’d been in your right mind.  It wasn’t like we hadn’t before.”  Bucky shoved his hand into his pocket.  At least Steve was still Steve.  Only he would think about apologizing first thing out of a coma.

Steve looked up with a small, tentative smile.  “What happened to your arm?”

“Fury took it.”

“Fury took it,” Steve repeated.

“An old army acquaintance.  He runs a counter-intelligence op now.  We're in its basement,” Bucky explained.

“Oh,” the other said softly.

“It must seem strange to you, given what you remember.”

“It's weird,” Steve said, running a hand over his head, “I remember two completely different sets of memories.  One is full of holes, and the other doesn't make any sense.  The only constant is you.  So I guess I'll have to trust you.”

“Blind leadin’ the blind, I guess.  Lots of holes in here, too,” he said, tapping his temple.  “Can't even remember who popped my cherry.”  Not Arnie, who really did grow up with him.  It had to be Black-Boots, but he couldn't remember his face.

“Must not have been very memorable,” Steve weakly laughed.

“Maybe not,” Bucky agreed.  “Not like when we were together, leastways.” He looked up at Steve, who blushed.

“You know, it's funny.  I remember it two ways.  Once when we were teenagers, real sweet and tender, and another on my uncle's pullout, both of us smelling like a greyhound bus.”

“It was the second one,” Bucky offered.

“I figured.  The first one was literally too good to be true.  Candles, chocolates, the works.  Didn’t seem to jive with what we did.”  Steve laughed again and stared back down at his hands.  “What I did.”

“No need to correct yourself.  Can I sit?”

Steve scooted over and Bucky sat down beside him.  They fit pretty well on the narrow mattress, Steve being as slim as he was and Bucky down an arm and shoulder.  “Steve, you only killed bad guys.”

Steve leaned his head on what remained of Bucky’s left shoulder.  “You’ve changed, Buck.  I feel like you’re really yourself.  I never knew who that was, but I’m glad you’re back.  It’ll be nice to fall in love with you again.  For the second or third time.”

Bucky smiled.  “Do you want to braid my hair?  I’ve been havin’ a hell of a time with it since Fury disarmed me.”

“Sure.  Turn around.  They have me hooked up to all this stuff.  I don’t know what half the machines are.  I feel like we didn’t have them in normal hospitals.”  He separated Bucky’s hair into four sections, his fingers moving more slowly with the IV in the back of one.  

“Probably didn’t.  These are to monitor your head, I think.  You were--bad.”

“I guess that explains the wires they have shunted into my spinal cord,” Steve replied.  He started to weave the long, dark strands into a french braid.  

“What?”  Bucky turned and Steve did the same, showing him the bandages at the base of his skull.

“Eugh,” the brunet grunted.

“Doesn’t feel nice either, but it keeps my brain from setting itself on fire.  They’re sending low-voltage current through the wires and treating me with an intravenous antiepileptic.  I think that’s why I’m so clearheaded right now.  I don’t think I’ll be so good in the future.” 

“How are they gonna fix it?”

“I don’t know,” Steve replied vaguely, tying off the end of Bucky’s hair with a stray rubber band.  “Lots of therapy, I guess.  That’s why I wanted to see you.  I don’t know who I’m gonna be when they take these wires out.”

“Steve Rogers.  You’ll be Steve Rogers,” Bucky answered.  Steve turned the man’s face around and kissed him deeply.  Bucky pliantly opened his mouth and let him in, his heart beating faster as Steve twisted his braid around his hand.

“You push me away next time, Buck, if I make you uncomfortable.  Even if I cry or beg or make a scene.  Promise me,” Steve whispered against his lips.

“I promise,” he replied.

“Good.  I couldn’t take it if I did something--to you.”  He met the other’s eyes and tugged gently on Bucky’s hair.  Bucky’s mouth fell open, his lower lip quivering with want.  He was putty in Steve’s hands.  Under the right conditions, he always would be.

“I missed you too, baby.  You kept telling me that, but I didn’t tell you how much I missed you too.”

“Buck,” Steve murmured, his lips moving up Bucky’s jaw to the soft spot under his ear.

Someone loudly cleared their throat in the doorway.  Bucky stayed where he was in Steve’s grasp, his eyes just rolling over towards the door.  Steve didn’t pull back either.  If anything, his hand tightened on Bucky’s braid, as if to say,  _ This is mine. _

“Didn’t mean to break anything up,” Nick Fury said dryly.

“You didn’t,” Bucky squeaked.

“That was sarcasm, Nancy.  I wanted to introduce myself to Steve and welcome him to SHIELD.”

“Steve, this is Nick Fury.  We served together in World War II.  Fury, this is Steve Rogers,” Bucky said.  Steve finally let him go, his point having been made abundantly clear.   

“Thank you for taking us in,” Steve said. 

“I’m sure you can make it up to me,” Fury replied.  “How are you feeling, little man?”

Bucky felt Steve turn to steel beside him.  “Just fine,  _ old man _ .”

“Suppose I deserve that.”  Fury looked between the two men for about ten seconds before arching his brows, as if he suddenly got their measure.  It wasn’t hard to see from the way Bucky stayed just slightly behind Steve while remaining a protective presence.

“Hopefully we get those wires out of your head you’ll be feeling much better,” Fury went on.  “You’ll let me know if you need anything, of course.  I’ve already figured out which one of you I don’t want to piss off.”

Bucky huffed softly, kind of offended.  He knew Steve could look scary, but what was he, a kitty cat?  He was pouting and he knew it.  His eyes shifted back and forth the way they always did when he was confused.

“I’m sure you’ve scared a nazi or two in your time,” Fury told him, but it didn’t make Bucky feel any better.  He was glad Steve was intimidating, but he needed to be intimidating, too.

“What kind of repayment did you have in mind?” Steve asked, his eyes never wavering.  

“I run a counter-intelligence unit.  You’re a smart kid, Steve.”

“You prefer coercion over brainwashing,” the blond noted.  “You saw an opportunity and swooped in to save the day.  Thank you, I guess.”

An understanding passed between Steve and Fury, as well as grudging respect.  Bucky felt kind of left out.

After Fury left, Bucky fidgeted awkwardly, waiting for Steve to relax beside him.  It took about half a minute before he sighed.  “Rest with me, Buck?” he asked.

“Sounds nice.  I haven’t slept in three days,” Bucky replied.

“You gotta take better care of yourself,” Steve said softly.  Bucky curled up on his side and let Steve embrace him from behind.  He liked feeling small, and Steve was about the only one who could accomplish that.

“They wouldn’t let me sleep here after the first two nights,” he answered.  Steve grumbled something and held him closer.  

“Get some rest, sweetheart.”

“Okay, daddy.”

Steve groaned.  “You can't know what you do to me, Buck.  The need they put in me, the craving of you--”

“You say you're clearheaded now, like you're both the Steve I met in New York and the Steve who was trained to be an assassin,” Bucky said softly.  He couldn't help but wiggle back against Steve's erection, and secretly delighted when the other man’s breath caught in his throat.

“Yeah?” Steve replied.

“Then I want a promise too.  Tell me now that it's you when you start something up, and it's what you want.  So I don't feel like I'm taking advantage of you.”

“It's still me.  The context is different, but it's always me.  When I touch you, or ask to be touched, it's because I want to.”

“Okay,” Bucky replied.  A knot completely loosened in his chest.  Finally, he could relax.

* * *

After the wires were removed from Steve’s head and he was stabilized, he was established in Bucky’s apartment and restricted to the residential floor.  It became readily apparent to just about everyone that the brainwashing had created something like dissociative identity disorder in him; there were two distinct Steves: the nurse from Brooklyn and the holy terror that HYDRA had created.  The latter refused to be parted from Bucky and was openly hostile to just about everyone else.  The former was a delight to be around.

Bucky never knew which one he was going to wake up next to.

Steve was taking a nap a few weeks later while Bucky played cards with Natasha and Sam.  Fury still hadn’t given him back his arm, and it was really difficult playing poker with just one hand, but he made do.

“Why does Steve call you Bucky, anyway?” Sam asked, waving away tendrils of Bucky’s cigarette smoke.

“James couldn’t remember his name, so Steve named him after his stuffed bear,” Natasha answered with a smirk.  She threw two cards in and accepted a new hand from Sam.

“That’s...adorable,” Sam answered.  Because if anyone looked like a stuffed bear, it was the man with one arm, three days of stubble, a neatly woven french braid, and a scowl.  Bucky set his cards down so he could flip the other man off.

“How is he?” Natasha asked.

“Unpredictable,” Bucky answered.  “I fold.” 

“Me too,” Sam added.

“Isn’t  _ The Real World  _ on?  You two need to leave,” Bucky grumbled, looking up at the clock above the stove.  He’d come to both enjoy and rely on Natasha and Sam’s friendship, but he had his limits.  Besides, Steve would wake up soon, and he hadn’t exactly warmed up to them yet.

“You were introduced to television a whole week ago and this is how you choose to use it?  Criminal,” Natasha replied, although she got to her feet anyway.  Sam joined her.  Bucky went to the couch and “artfully” draped himself over it--as much as he could with one arm, anyway.  What the hell was Fury doing with the damn thing?  It couldn’t take this long to examine Soviet tech.

Steve came out of the bedroom wearing a pair of Bucky’s underwear and nothing else.  He yawned, stretched, and sat down at the end of the couch.  Bucky rested his feet in the other man’s lap.  He didn’t know which Steve was down there, but he was sure that he would find out soon enough.

“This is a rerun,” Steve sighed.  He rubbed Bucky’s feet, hairy toes and all.  Bucky was still waiting to find out which personality was on the surface.  It was stressful living this way, but a little thrilling too.  He kept one eye on the TV and the other on Steve, waiting.

Steve stretched again, popping his back over the back of the couch.  He ran his hands over his face and hair briskly.  “I’m cold,” he declared.

Bucky grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and held it out.  Steve pushed his hand away and climbed on top of him instead.  He rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder and drew his legs up so that his feet were pressed against the other man’s crotch.  Then Bucky drew the blanket down over both of them.  

“When are they gonna give us a mission?  I’m so bored,” Steve yawned.  Then it was HYDRA Steve after all.  His therapists had talked to Bucky briefly about their plan, which ultimately ended in integration of the two lives.  They didn’t know how to erase what had never happened; instead, they were going to try to create a new, hybrid Steve.  Of course, they offered Bucky services as well, but he had declined.  He liked exploring his memories like chapters in a book.  

“You were pretty sick, sugar,” he finally replied, almost getting caught up in the show again, even though he’d seen it.  

“I know, but I’m fine now,” Steve replied, stretching out on top of him.  He rolled onto his stomach so that they were face to face.  “When are they going to give you your arm back?” 

Bucky smiled and arched his hips a little.  He watched a smile spread across Steve’s face.  “You know, I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

“Maybe we should go get it,” the blond replied, running his fingers down Bucky’s cheek.  “It’s getting too easy to hold you down while I fuck you.”

“Is it, now?” Bucky asked, arching his brows.  He put his one arm behind his head.  

“Not that it isn’t  _ fun _ , it’s just easy,” Steve answered.

“I make it easy for you,” Bucky scoffed, “since you’ve been sick.”

“Oh, really?”  A blond brow arched.

Bucky looked up at him through a fan of dark lashes.  “Mm,” he agreed.

Steve moved quickly, his arm lashing out to strike.  Bucky caught him by the wrist and flipped him off of the couch.  Steve laughed as he crashed through the coffee table.  The brunet went to follow him, but Steve knocked his foot out from underneath him.

Neither stayed on the floor for long.  Bucky sprang into a crouch with a shard of wood in his hand; Steve held both fists up like a 1930s prize fighter.  He bounced on the balls of his toes as he waited for Bucky to attack.

“What are you gonna do if you catch me?” Bucky asked.  He threw the wood like a dagger and followed in its wake, forcing Steve to dodge and fall off center before Bucky was on him.  

Still, Bucky was unbalanced.  Steve fended him off easily, grabbing his wrist with both hands and launching him into the TV.  It exploded with a shatter and a pop.  

“Oh, bastard!” Bucky laughed, springing to his feet.  

“How are you gonna watch Springer now?” Steve taunted, turning and dashing towards the bedroom.  Bucky chased him.  He liked this game.

Steve had a mag-cuff, which he tossed from hand to hand.  Per both of their requests, there was a strip of metal anchored into the studs of the walls around the room.  The blond meant to capture him; it was Bucky’s job to make sure it didn’t happen (right away).  Steve ran at him.  Bucky let him get so close he could smell him before spinning on the ball of his foot.  Fighting in close quarters was difficult, but he managed to get behind Steve and kick him (not so) lightly in the ass.  

“You’re gonna regret that!” Steve said, stumbling into the dresser.

“You’re gonna regret breaking my TV!”

“I already do!  I have to listen to your whining!”  He dropped down onto a crouch and aimed a kick at Bucky’s ankles.  The brunet fell back, catching himself on one of the posters of the bed.

“Let me pin you up like a good boy and I’ll go easy on you,” Steve said.  He used the mag-cuff for extra weight as he landed a punch on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Where’s the fun in that?” the other grunted.  He lost his grip on the poster and used the momentum to land on the bed.

“I think, deep down, you really want to be good for me,” Steve said, straddling him.  “You wanna be good, but you just don’t know how, isn’t that right?”

Bucky grabbed him by the hips and threw him off.  It was difficult, what with the wood he was sporting.  He ached to give in.  

“Oh, you are gonna get it.  You won’t sit right for a week!” Steve shouted, diving for him.

“From spanking or fucking?” Bucky asked, finally allowing himself to be caught.  Steve took his wrist and pinned it against the wall with the cuff.  

“From both.  More,” Steve replied.  “You pissed me off.”  He flicked Bucky’s nose and leaned in close to his ear.  “Are you comfortable?”

“Besides how hard I am?” he asked, turning his head.

“Don’t be crude,” Steve replied, pinching Bucky’s nipple through his shirt until he got a tiny gasp in response.  “I wanna see that beautiful body of yours.  Keep still.”  He pulled Bucky’s boxers off and laid a kiss on each hipbone before drawing his fingers up his hard length.

“Look at you.  You want me so badly, don’t you?”  His tongue flashed out and licked up a bead of precome from the slit.  

Bucky whimpered and curled his toes in the sheets.  

“You taste so good, sweetheart.  I could suck you off all day--but I’m not gonna.  I bet you wish you hadn’t thrown me into the coffee table now, huh?”  Steve slapped his flank.  “Get up on your knees.  Ass up.” 

The brunet rolled onto his stomach and then pushed himself up on his knees.  His wrist turned in the cuff comfortably.  Bucky had tinkered with them during one of Steve’s long naps.  He pushed his face into the pillow and spread his knees, offering himself up.

He heard Steve rummage around in their nightstand drawer.  “What do you think?  You kicked me in the ass.  So, the big plug?”

Something hard and slick rubbed against his asshole.  Bucky instinctively clenched up until Steve rubbed the small of his back.  His shirt was rucked up under his armpits.

“You can take it.  Breathe,” he said softly.  He gently worked the plug in, but even so, the stretch was uncomfortable.  Bucky bit the pillowcase and wailed.  Tears dampened his cheeks and the hair that had escaped from his braid.

“Pretty baby.  You’re being so good.  It’s almost in.  There we go.”

Bucky’s thighs trembled with the effort of keeping still, but once the plug was in, he allowed himself to move and feel it press against his prostate.  They didn’t have these in the forties--well, nothing so refined, anyway.  He arched his lower back and then pushed his hipbones out, just testing.

“God, you’re so sexy,” Steve sighed.  “Talk to me, Buck.  Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m sorry I was bad.”

“It’s okay.  I’ll make you feel good again.  Do you want me to just use my hand?” he asked, caressing the hard muscle of his ass.  

“If that’s what you want,” Bucky replied.

Steve sighed.  “Sweetheart.”

Bucky had just enough time to draw in a breath before Steve spanked him hard, pushing the plug deeper inside him.  The first few blows weren’t so bad, but the fifth time Steve brought his hand down over the red, bruising flesh, he screamed.  This was different than fighting.  When he was with Steve like this, he allowed himself to feel the pain, to revel in it, and let it to wash everything else away.

“Calm.  Calm down,” Steve was saying, stroking his back.  “Shh.  Cry it all out.”  

Bucky didn’t realize he was crying, but sure enough, he had tears and snot running down his face, soaking into the pillow.  Suddenly, the plug was gone, and Steve was reaching up and undoing the cuff so that he could pull him into his arms.  “Shh, shh.”  He got up onto his knees so he could put his arms around Bucky’s neck and rock him back and forth.  “Did I hurt you?  Wait--stupid question.  Did I go too far?”

Bucky shook his head.  “It’s not you,” he replied.  

Steve unplaited the other man’s hair and ran his fingers through it.  He settled Bucky’s head in his lap and raked his hair back from his forehead.  “Slow, deep breaths.  After this, we’ll get you into the shower and maybe some food in you.  Sound good?”

Bucky clenched his hand in Steve’s boxers.  “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you want me to,” Steve replied.

Bucky closed his eyes.  His ass hurt--throbbed, actually--but it felt good, in a weird way.  Steve petted and soothed him, pulled the blankets up over him and rocked him gently. 

“What the hell happened in here?” 

The brunet lifted his head and turned in the direction of the living room.  Steve patted his side and said, “I’ll handle it.  Stay here.”

He threw on some dirty clothes from the floor and left, closing the door behind him.  Bucky crept over and put his ear against the door.

“Who the hell are you?” Steve asked.

“Tony fucking Stark.  And you’re Steve Rogers, and I assume from your rumpled hair and bruises that James Barnes is behind that door.  I have his arm.”

Bucky’s heart leapt in his throat.  Tony Stark, as in Howard Stark’s son?  

“Stop scowling, sweetheart.  I took time out of my precious day running a multi-million dollar company to upgrade your boyfriend's arm.”

Bucky moved from one corner of the room to the other, tugging his hair.  This Steve didn't know that he killed this kid’s parents--or that the guilt of it had broken through Bucky’s brainwashing.

“Can you go get him, maybe?  I'd like to see if it works properly,” Tony Stark said, a definite bite in his voice.

Bucky panicked.  There were no windows in their room--in their entire apartment, actually; there were just mounted screens showing pastoral scenes.  He couldn't escape that way.  Instead, he hid under the bed, like a child scared of the bogeyman.

Steve opened the door and didn't see him.  He turned back to Tony and said, “He's unavailable.  You can leave the arm or take it with you.  Your choice.”

Tony rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.  Steve's fingers itched to shoot him, just his smug, arrogant face annoyed him, but of course, he'd been completely disarmed.  Something inside warned him against letting him at Bucky, but he couldn't think why.  Tony was a kid.  Either one of them could turn him into a smear on the carpet.  It was a stronger instinct than the usual “keep everyone away” protocol he operated under.

After Tony left (without the arm), Steve knelt and lifted the bedskirt.  Bucky was where he'd thought he'd be: crammed in the too-small space under the bed.

“You can come out, sweetheart.  He's gone,” Steve said, holding out his hand.  

“I killed his parents,” Bucky replied.  He stayed where he was, so Steve crawled in after him.  

“You completed your mission.” 

“I bashed his mother’s face in on the dashboard of their jaguar.”

Steve pressed his lips together, trying to figure out how to make this better.  “He’s rich now, at least.”

Bucky groaned and scooted away from him.

“Okay, that was the wrong thing to say.  Calm down!  Come out from underneath here.”

Bucky decided he’d stay where he was, thanks.  He liked it down here.  It was dark and safe--kind of like being in the cold, but not so painful.  The door of their apartment opened again and Bucky tensed.  Steve laid a slim hand over his wrist.

Heavy footsteps moved from their demolished living room to the kitchen, and finally into the bedroom.  Bucky lifted the bedskirt with one finger and peeked out.  He saw a pair of black boots and his mind went somewhere else.  Suddenly, it was 1944 again and he was in his twenties, young, slender, the best marksman the army had to offer.  He was also tied face-down to a cot, getting whipped with a belt.

“You two come out from wherever you’re hiding,” Fury demanded.  

Steve came out first.  “Buck isn’t feeling well.  You should come back some other time,” he said. 

“What the hell happened in here?  It looks like a bomb went off!”

“We were--...” 

“We were playing a game,” Bucky offered from under the bed.  “You can’t keep two super soldiers locked up in a room and expect the furniture to stay intact.”

“Come out of there, Nancy,” Fury snapped.  

“No.” 

“No?”

“He said ‘no,’” Steve growled.  He dropped into a fighting stance, bracing his weight on his left foot, the toes of his right foot digging into the floorboards.  

“You think you can take me, little man?” Fury scoffed.

“Yeah, I do,” Steve replied. 

Bucky looked from one side of the bed from the other.  He wasn’t totally sure, but he thought his lover from the forties was threatening his lover from the nineties.  He and Nick Fury had fucked.  Many times.  Until Azzano.  Fury had been his first.  Bucky didn’t quite know how to feel about it now.  In a way, it felt like it had happened to someone else.  In another, it was very real and standing next to his bed.

“Did you look for me after I was captured in Azzano?” he asked.

Both Steve and Fury stopped.  Bucky imagined them staring down at the mattress like they could see Bucky through it.  

“Look, kid--”

“ _ Did you look? _ ”

“I tried,” Fury answered, “but the higher-ups wouldn’t go for a rescue op for a sniper and a few scouts.  I thought about taking the Howling Commandos--”

“You thought?” Bucky interrupted.

“But it was two hundred miles of forest and nazis between you and me.  I couldn’t take the risk.  I had to let you go.  There was a war going on.”

Bucky nodded, though no one could see it.  Yeah, there had been a war going on, and he was just a fuck.  Not worth the risk.  Had he loved Nick Fury?  He wasn’t sure.  But being abandoned was painful either way--whether it be by his father, his sister, or his lover.  Everyone but Steve.

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Steve asked.  “Bucky told you he’s not coming out, so unless you intend to crawl under there, I suggest you leave!”

“To hell with you both,” Fury sighed, and Bucky watched as he turned on his heel.  His boots disappeared and the front door slammed.  Bucky slumped against the floor.  Steve knelt down again and lifted the bedskirt.  Bucky could tell from the slant of his brows that he was angry or jealous, probably without knowing exactly why.  

“You probably want to shower.  I’ll make something to eat,” he said, and dropped the fabric again.  Bucky felt very alone.  He gnawed on his lower lip and fought back the urge to cry.  He was always being left alone.  It was only a matter of time before Steve went too.  

He slipped his hand between the bottom of the bed and his face to rub his eyes.  He told himself it was just the dust making tears gather in his eyes.  He’d already had one breakdown today.  Keep it together.  

_ Keep it together. _

He cried anyway.

A moment later, Steve padded back into the bedroom, grabbed the bed by its frame, and lifted it off the ground.  It crashed onto its side against the wall.

“C’mon.  Get on outta there,” Steve sighed, grabbing Bucky’s arm and hauling him up.  “C’mon.”

Steve took him into the shower and turned it on hot.  He stepped in after him and put his arms around him.  “What’s this about, pal?  Fury’s an asshole, but he’s not worth crying over.”

Bucky couldn’t tell him; this Steve wouldn’t understand.  He put his head on his shoulder instead.  “Are you gonna leave me?” he asked.

“No!  God, don’t be silly.  I know I’ve been--different lately.  You know, remembering things that never happened.”  

“It’s okay,” Bucky mumbled.  He was glad for it, actually.  It meant the integration therapy was working.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna  _ leave  _ you.  I’m getting pretty tired of this place.  I was hoping that since they finally gave you your arm back, maybe we’ll make a break for it.”

“Then we’ll have two groups hunting us down.  I’m sorry, but you and I will never have a normal life,” Bucky said, stroking his cheek.  Steve’s eyes faltered.  HYDRA Steve would have known this, of course, but for the other, real Steve, this fact might just be settling in.  No wives and children.  Not even what constituted “normal” for the average gay couple.  They were  _ assets _ , not people.

“It’s better to keep our heads down and rest while we can,” he went on.  

“You’re right, of course,” Steve replied after a long silence.  

After they got out of the shower and picked out clothes from the shards of their dresser, Steve made them ramen.  They were loudly slurping it out of bowls in front of the still smouldering TV set when Natasha came in.  With all the time they spent “in bed,” one would think she would knock.  

“Did you guys have fun?” she asked, kicking a pile of coffee table out of her way before sitting down.

“Kinda?” Steve replied.  “What do you want?”

“Oh, it’s Asshole Steve.  I was hoping for the other one.  Fury sent me to talk to you, since you wouldn’t talk to him.  Stark delivered Bucky’s arm and it wasn’t because you two are such charming fellas.  We need both of you.  We have a guy in downtown Manhattan exploding shit with lightning bolts and claiming he’s the Norse god of thunder.”

Bucky stared at her.  Surely this was bullshit.

  
“And he’s looking for his brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm drawing heavily from the _Captain America: White_ series for Bucky's backstory with Fury (although I'm obviously combining it with the MCU). If you haven't, you should definitely check it out.


	7. Chapter 7

Steve felt really out of his element.

This was his thought as he hunkered behind a car in black and white tactical gear, a gun in one hand.  Lightning was everywhere, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  The air reeked of ozone and settled heavily on his chest, like a damp blanket.

Sometime on the flight to Manhattan, Steve had become Steve again--Steve the Nurse, that is--and had to be brought up to speed on where they were going and why Bucky looked pale as death while a teenager fiddled with his arm.  He’d been grateful for Sam’s reassuring presence beside him and for Natasha too, who had taken up care of Bucky while Steve was in and out.  

Right now, though, he was alone.  The team had gotten scattered in the chaos the hammer-wielding maniac had incited.  Killing Soviets and terrorists was one thing, but taking a gun to a man who could (quite literally) call down thunder?  It was insane even to him.

For a moment, things went terribly still.  Steve’s stance shifted; gravel crunched under the tread of his boot.  Then he heard Bucky shout.

Steve vaulted over the car.  His gun went back into its thigh holster as he raced toward where the blond giant had Bucky by the neck, holding him up.  

“Stop!” he cried, drawing both men’s attention to him.  Bucky tried to warn him off with his eyes, but that was probably difficult when they were about to pop out of his head.

Steve held up both empty hands.  “I’m not armed, okay?  I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The man stared at him while Bucky kicked at his shins.  

“Please, put him down.  He’s my friend.  Please.”

The man did not release Bucky, who was starting to go limp.  Steve set his jaw and took a step forward.  The giant reached behind him and pulled out his hammer, shifting his grip on the brunet as he threw the thing at Steve.  It hurtled straight for his face but, with his new reflexes and speed, he caught it easily.  He passed the hammer from one hand to the other before setting it down.  “Put him the fuck down!”

Bucky collapsed to the ground in a heap, rolling onto his stomach as he gasped for breath.  The stranger strode toward him, snatched the hammer off the ground, and demanded, “What are you called?”

“Steve Rogers.  Who are you?”

“Thor Odinson.  I am looking for my brother, Loki.  I followed him here from Asgard.  Take this.”  The large blond man pushed the hammer back into Steve’s hand, and he took it, not understanding.

“I don’t want it,” he replied, handing it back.  “I want you to stop hurting my friends, calm down, and let us help you.” 

“Only those who are truly worthy can wield Mjolnir.”

“Great,” Steve said.  He started edging around Thor to get to Bucky, who was still on the ground.  Where the hell were Natasha and Sam?  Or just about anyone else?  “Why don’t you take a few moments to compose yourself while I check on my friend over there, okay, pal?”

Thor looked at him oddly as he ran over to where Bucky was.  Steve helped Bucky sit up.  There were angry bruises forming on his neck, which pissed Steve off in a possessive sort of way.  Only  _ he  _ was allowed to put a mark on that beautiful pale column of a neck.  “Hey, you with me?” he asked.

“What the hell is that thing?” Bucky croaked.

“I got no idea,” Steve replied, “but he seems to have calmed down.”

“‘Cause of you.  What do you think we should do?  Normally I’d just shoot him, but that was really ineffective before.”  Bucky rubbed his neck and winced.

“What did Fury tell you before I--blacked out?”

“We haven’t spoken.  Remember how I told you I didn’t remember who popped my cherry?  I remembered.”

Steve looked at him with what he was sure was an unpleasant expression.  “Fury?  Really?”  He needed to work on his jealous tendencies.  

“Maybe now isn’t the time to get into this,” Bucky reminded him, getting to his feet.  Steve stood with him as Thor approached.  Bucky put his metal arm around Steve’s shoulders. 

“It’s imperative that we find Loki.  He is--mischievous,” Thor said.  “Are you the protectors of this world, then?”

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but he honestly had no answer.  Natasha and Sam emerged from the wreckage.  “You should come with us to our headquarters,” Bucky suggested.  This was not their problem.  Didn’t they have enough?  Between HYDRA and SHIELD, they didn’t have time for lightning gods and tricksters.

Thor reluctantly boarded the quinjet with them, leaving the disaster relief people to clean up their mess.  It could have been worse, Steve supposed.  He sat close to Bucky with Sam on his other side, and Natasha next to him.  Thor sat on the other side of the plane alone.  They all stared back at each other uneasily.  Thor wouldn’t take his eyes off of Steve.

“No one has ever been able to lift Mjolnir besides myself,” he announced.  

“Uh huh,” Steve replied, scooting closer to Bucky.  Sam moved in too, closing ranks.  Steve turned his head so he could whisper at the brunet.  “You really had sex with Fury?” 

“I was in my twenties and there wasn’t a lot of ass available in Algiers, okay?” he hissed back.

“But--”

“I didn’t want to die a virgin, Steve!  Why is that guy staring at you, anyhow?”

“Something about his hammer, I dunno!  You have no reason to be jealous!”

“Neither do you!  You act like I’m chasing after Fury’s wrinkly balls.  It was fifty years ago!”

“And he’s some kind of space alien from planet Fabio!” 

Bucky scoffed softly and flipped a few strands of hair over his shoulder.  Steve smoldered.  He was imagining all the things he was going to do when he got Bucky alone.  And Thor was  _ still  _ staring at him.  Steve glanced over and saw Sam holding Natasha’s hand.  A lot happened while he was the other Steve (Asshole or HYDRA Steve, as Bucky and Natasha had taken to calling him).  He remembered things from the time he was “gone” in bits and pieces, but it was getting better.  The therapy was working, just slowly.

Nick Fury was there to meet them at headquarters.  Steve shot daggers at him from his eyes at him from across the helipad.  Bucky flipped his hair again like the vain asshole he was and descended into the building.   

Sam laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “Hey, Steve?”

Steve turned.  “What is it?” he asked, trying to work as much enthusiasm as he could muster into his voice.

“I just wanted to make sure it was you before I asked you how you were,” Sam replied.

“I’m okay,” Steve replied.  It was a lie; he didn’t feel very okay.  He’d never actually been in a combat situation like that, and learning about Bucky and Fury had upset him more than he would have thought.  And on top of that, there was Thor, making eyes at him.

“You don’t seem very okay,” Sam noted.

“It’s just been a weird day, is all.”  

“For you and me both, Steve-O.”  He ran a hand over his head.  “I’ve seen some weird-ass shit these past few weeks ‘cause of you.”  

“I know,” Steve apologized.

“Don’t get me wrong--I’ve seen some great things too.”  Sam glanced over at Natasha, who was talking with Fury a few yards away.

“Yeah, she’s beautiful.”

“Bucky got you upset?” Sam asked.

Steve crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot against the ground.  “I’m jealous.  He had an affair with Nick Fury during the war--decades ago.  I don’t even know why I care.  He slept with Natasha, too, but that doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, she’s a woman for one, and Bucky seems inclined to men.  They were both brainwashed at the time.  Maybe you see Fury as a threat because Bucky was in his right mind when he chose to sleep with him.”

Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  

“And maybe you still feel guilty because he wasn’t in his right mind when he chose you.”

The words hit him hard.  

“I mean, obviously, he chooses you now,” Sam rapidly amended.

“Yeah.  Of course he does,” Steve replied.  “Good talk, Sam.”  He ran after Bucky as quickly as he could, but he was caught by the wrist before he could enter the building.  Thor was holding him hostage.

“I would like to speak to you when you have a moment.  It is no small thing to be able to wield Mjolnir.  You have a pure heart.  That means you are a target.  I want to warn you: look after the ones you love.  Your enemies will go after them first.”

Steve pulled his wrist free.  “Thanks for the advice,” he said, and continued on his way.  Bucky was in the shower when he got back to their apartment.  In their absence, someone had cleared away the debris and replaced their furniture, which was nice.  

He pushed the bathroom door open and watched Bucky for a moment through the shower door.  The water tinged off of his metal arm as he rinsed soap out of his hair.  It fell halfway down his back when it was wet.  The thought of anyone else having him drove Steve crazy--and Sam was right.  The thought that Bucky had chosen Fury, but not Steve made him furious.

“Buck?”

“What is it, Steve?” he asked, lifting the hair off the back of his neck.  Steve moved closer, like a sailor to a siren’s call.  

“I’m sorry.  You have to know that the thought of you with anyone else drives me fucking crazy, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you back there,” he said.  

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it,” Bucky replied.  He pulled his hair into a ponytail and then into a bun.  Steve was pressed against the glass now, watching as Bucky secured his hair and started washing his back and shoulders.

“It’s just that you chose him.  You picked me by default,” he answered. 

“That’s stupid.  You think I woulda stayed if I didn’t love you?”  Bucky looked over and saw Steve pressed against the glass like a kid window shopping on Christmas.  He slid the door open and pulled Steve in, hauling him off of his feet for a kiss.  Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck and stepped under the water despite his clothes. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Steve said.  

“Thank you,” Bucky replied, “so are you.  And all mine.”  He kissed the corner of his mouth and set him back down on his feet.  “I do need to speak to Fury.  You’re welcome to go with me--”

“No, that’s your business, sweetheart.”  Steve rested his head over Bucky’s heart.  He trusted him; he just didn’t trust Fury.  He supposed he was more like the other Steve than he liked to think.  The brunet kissed the top of his head before slipping around him. 

“I'll see you at dinner, okay?  Take a nap.” Bucky smirked. “Get out of these wet clothes.”

“Okay,” Steve said dumbly, still standing under the water fully-clothed.

Bucky dressed in a t-shirt with a logo from a TV show he’d never seen (what was  _ Dukes of Hazzard _ ?) and jeans before heading for the elevators.

Inside, there were no buttons--not that he was used to elevators with buttons, but there wasn’t an operator, either.  He stood inside for about a minute before he remembered Natasha talking to it.  “Take me to Nick Fury,” he told the door.  He studied his own reflection in the brushed nickel of the door.  His hair was still sloppily piled on his head; he looked like an American teenager (he’d never looked his age, even during the War), except for the arm.  He was grateful to have it back nevertheless.  

“Access denied,” the elevator replied.

Bucky frowned at himself and put his hands on his hips.  “Well, why?”

“You lack necessary security clearance,” the synthetic voice replied.

He groaned in frustration.  “Okay.  Can you relay a message or are you just an elevator?”

“Record message,” the elevator answered.

“Nick, this is James.  I’d like to talk to you.  Just to clear the air.  Please, will you let me into your fuckin’ office?”

After a moment, the elevator started to lurch upward.  Bucky crossed his arms over his chest and felt smug for singlehandedly conquering technology.

When the doors opened up on Fury’s office, the man was leaning against his desk.  In his dark leather jacket and tailored suit, Bucky felt a little underdressed.

“Never took you for a  _ Hazzard  _ fan,” he said, lighting a cigarette from a steel case.  Bucky drifted over on the rich scent of tobacco.

“I dunno what it is,” he admitted.  “May I?” He looked from Fury’s eyes to his cigarettes and back again.

“You always bummed my smokes,” the other man grumbled, passing one over. Fury lit it for him, and Bucky inhaled a lungful of smoke.

“From what I remember, I earned it,” he replied.

Fury inclined his head in assent.  “Always willing to accommodate; that's James Barnes.”

Bucky refused to rise to the bait.  “What about you?  Get married, have kids?” He leaned against the desk beside Fury.

“Nope.  Not in the cards, I'm afraid.”

Bucky shifted, tugging at a stand of hair that had escaped from his bun.  “There's still time.  You look good for 70.” He averted his eyes, not wanting Fury to think he was coming on to him.

“That's a story in itself.  I'm not as well preserved as you, but I've had some--enhancements.”

Bucky cleared his throat.  “I just came to apologize.  I shouldn't have made a big scene--earlier.  It wasn't like we were in love.  You didn't have an obligation to me--”

“That's bullshit, Jimmy.  I let you down, and I kick myself every day for it.  Even if we hadn't been fucking, we were still buddies.  Brothers in arms.  Later, when I started hearing rumors about a Soviet ghost--and I saw the pictures--Jesus, I could have killed myself when I realized it was you.”

“Well.” Bucky sighed and tilted his head to the side.  This wasn't going as planned.  Not that he had a plan.  Distracted, he nearly jumped out of his skin when the other man touched his neck.

“I gotta say, you were the finest lay I  _ ever _ had.”

Bucky jerked away from his touch.  “Don't think I won't break that hand off and fist you with it just because we're friends again.”

“Is that what we are?” Fury asked.  He pressed his fingers against his lips briefly before lowering his hand to his side.  “I think it's important for you to realize that first of all, I'm your superior officer.  And that you owe me a big favor.”

Bucky’s eyes widened at the implication.

“Jesus, I'm not that sleazy!” Fury snapped.  “I just don't want you to forget.  You and your boy are here and safe because I made it safe for you.  So next time I fucking ask you to do something, you better damn well do it and not pout under the bed, dig me?”

The brunet had to laugh.  “You mean we're slaves.  That's what you're talking about, right?  What makes you think Steve and I couldn't make it on our own?”

“He's insane.  Certifiably.  And if you tell anyone your story, you'll be in the funny farm right next to him.  You've run out of places to run, Jimmy, face it.”

“We're still people, goddammit!”

Fury shook his head.  “No, you're soldiers.  Assets.  You don't even exist on paper.  You have no rights.”

“Steve does!  He has a family!” 

Nick had the decency to look away.  “No, he doesn't.  Any record of Steve Rogers had been destroyed.  The Widow saw to that.”

The fingers of Bucky’s right hand went numb.  “Natasha did?”

The older man's face was chagrined as he stared out the window.  “Don't act so shocked.  She has a job, just like you do.  Nothing comes for free, James.”

“My name is Bucky,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.  He pushed himself away from the desk.  If he stood there any longer, he was going to gouge Fury’s other eye out.  His movements were tightly controlled as he walked to the elevator.  “Call me on the fucking phone next time, dipshit.” He flipped him off with his metal finger before shouting at the elevator to take him home.

Such as it was.

Steve saw him and knew he was fuming.  He decided to tiptoe around him rather than jump on him like he wanted.  Bucky plopped down on the couch and cradled his head in his hand.  He looked broken, defeated.  Even his wide shoulders were bowed.

“Baby?” he asked tentatively.

“Yeah, Steve?” 

“You okay?”

“No,” Bucky answered.  His anger was starting to fade, and was gradually replaced by despair.  He meant to take care of Steve, not make him Nick Fury's property.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“No.  I got us into a mess.”

“Fury is using me as leverage,” he guessed.

“In a nutshell.”

“It's not your fault, Buck.  Neither one of us has been in control of our lives in a while.” Steve decided it was safe to approach and draped himself over Bucky’s back.  Bucky seemed to shrink a little more, like he was ashamed of himself.

“I'm not even in control of my own mind half the time,” Steve reminded him.

“‘Cause of me.”

“No, no, no, baby. No.  Don't talk like that.  I love you, and no one is making me feel that.” 

Bucky turned and pulled him over the back of the couch, into his lap.  He arched his brow as if to say, “Are you sure?”

Steve arched one right back.  “Do you need me to convince you?” he asked.

Bucky didn't answer.  He just watched as Steve sunk to the floor between his knees.  He licked his lips as he popped the button on the other man's jeans.  “No underwear?  I love it.”

His breath hitched in his chest as Steve pulled his cock free and looked up at him with sharp eyes.  He knew he got Bucky off and that made him cocky.  Plush lips curved into a smile.

“Take that fucking ridiculous shirt off,” Steve commanded.  Bucky leaned forward and pulled the shirt over his head.  He stroked Steve's hair, letting it sift through his fingers.  Steve pushed his hand up Bucky’s chest.

“Now I'm gonna suck you good and proper, but you're not gonna come, because after that, you're gonna bend over the arm of the couch and I'm gonna eat you out.  You can come on my tongue if you want, but I'd really love it if you came on my dick instead.”

“You're asking a lot, not to pop off in your mouth,” Bucky replied, using both hands now to pet his hair.

“Can you try?” Steve asked, sticking his tongue out to catch a drop of pre-ejaculate from the head of the other’s cock.

“Yes,” he sighed, spreading his legs further.

“Alright.” Steve slipped his hands underneath his jeans and pushed them down a little more.  He swirled his tongue around Bucky’s corona before steadily working it against the sensitive spot just underneath.  Bucky bit down on a gasp.

“I thought you said ‘suck,’ not ‘tease,’” he said.

“I like the taste of you,” Steve replied.  He remembered going upstate one spring with his parents.  His mother showed him how to pull the stamen from a honeysuckle blossom to taste the drop of nectar inside.  Bucky was like that: raw, natural, sweet, but a little bitter too.  Intoxicating.

“You're driving me crazy, Stevie.”

“Feeling’s mutual.” Steve finally drew on him, his hands dropping to Bucky’s hips as he eased his length down his throat by degrees.

“May I touch you?” Bucky asked.  Steve realized he withdrew his hands a while ago.  He lifted his eyes and assented, nodding his head as much as he could with a cock in his mouth.  Bucky went back to petting him, his metal fingers just ghosting over his skin.  They carried a slight static charge, making his skin tingle.  But he didn't push.  He never pushed.

Steve cupped his balls and squeezed a little.  He didn't know where he learned that.  Bucky must have showed him while Steve was the other one.  He was rewarded with a burst of that flavor in his mouth.  Steve pulled back.

“You gonna come?” he asked, rubbing Bucky's shaft against his cheek.

“Soon,” Bucky panted.

“Then get up on your knees.”

The brunet reluctantly pulled away and bent over the arm of the couch.  Once again, Steve tugged his jeans down.  “I gotta admit, you have the prettiest asshole I've ever seen.”

“You a connoisseur now?” Bucky asked.  He peeked over his shoulder at Steve and it was the sweetest thing Steve had ever seen.

“I'm a nurse,” he replied mildly.  “It's cute.  Pink, sweet.” He leaned and kissed the tight pucker of flesh before flicking his tongue against it.  Bucky tore at the couch.  He tried to wiggle away, but Steve grasped him by the hips and hauled him closer.  He worked his tongue against him until he relaxed enough to let him in.  Bucky cried out, mewled, whimpered, made all the delightful sounds that made Steve hard as a rock.

“Please, Stevie, please!  Oh god!”

Bucky’s taste flooded his mouth here too, musky and animal.  He couldn't speak, but he was urging Bucky with his hands:  _ give it to me, come for me. _  He worked the other man's saliva-slicked cock as he drove into him with a pointed tongue.

And then a shudder took Bucky and he screamed, spilling himself over Steve's hand and the new couch.  His entire body clenched, forcing Steve’s tongue out of him.

Bucky collapsed.  For a second, Steve thought he was unconscious, but then his eyes fluttered open.  “I'm sorry,” he mumbled, “I know you wanted to--”

“Shh,” Steve soothed and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.  “You want to watch me finish off?”

Bucky nodded his head and grabbed Steve's wrist.  “Finish on me.” He slipped off the couch and got on his knees in front of him.  

How could Steve resist that face?

He came so much harder with Bucky’s lips against his cock and his pleas in his ears.

After Bucky had licked Steve's seed off his chest, cheeks, and fingers, they were back in the shower.  Then, Bucky stepped onto the balcony to smoke.  Steve was happy to watch him pace back and forth, nude and wet.  God, all that hair.  It was truly beautiful.  It clung to his back and chest, like tendrils of night.

Bucky leaned against the railing on his elbows, presenting Steve inside with a picture perfect view of his ass.  He turned from the television showing reruns of  _ M*A*S*H  _ to watch him.  He just came and already he wanted Bucky again.

After the brunet finished his cigarette, he flicked the butt off the balcony and came in.  He looked from the TV to Steve to Steve's growing erection and lifted his brows.

“My turn?” he asked, grinning like a teenage boy.  Steve reached out to him.

* * *

The next morning, Steve exited the bathroom after his morning piss and nearly ran into a brunet who definitely was not Bucky.  Even though he was not his other, nastier self, he immediately dropped into a fighting stance.

“Relax, tiny man,” a well-cultured voice said.  He was tall--huge, actually--with mischievous green eyes and cruel, thin lips.

“Who are you?  Where's Bucky?”

“Taking a piss off the balcony.  Apparently, he couldn't wait for you.  In any case, it gives me enough time to do this.” The man pulled a scepter out of goddamned nowhere and ever so gently pushed it against Steve's chest.

It was enough.

* * *

Bucky came in from outside and found Steve already dressed, which was not his usual practice.  Caught slightly off guard, he asked, “Goin’ somewhere, toots?”

“I thought I might go visit our lightning-wielding maniac,” Steve replied, smoothing his hair back.  

Bucky wanted to cuddle, so he tried to hide his disappointment.  “You want me to come along?”

Steve looked at him blankly.  “No,” he stated.

“Oh,” Bucky replied.  He tried not to be hurt, but he was hurt.  Steve didn’t want him to go along.  He tapped down his rising panic, which was incited by his fear of being abandoned.  

“I’ll see you later, okay?” Steve said, slipping out the door.  Bucky shifted his weight from one foot to the other in the silent, empty apartment.  Then he followed Steve.  Natasha could give him all the snark that she wanted, but Bucky was an assassin.  He was quite adept at following people without being noticed. Steve was headed to the lower levels of the building--lower than the semi-basement Fury had given them.  Bucky knew there were holding cells down here, but he didn't think that's where they put Thor.

Steve seemed to have no difficulty finding his way.  He went right up to a door and knocked.  Thor opened the door, and Steve slipped his arms around the tall man's neck and kissed him.

Bucky turned away and covered his mouth before he could cry out or puke.  And he left before he could see Thor push Steve away.


	8. Chapter 8

It took Steve approximately 24 hours to disobey Fury’s orders to stay put before he went looking for Bucky.  They told him what happened, of course: Loki was in the building somewhere and had manipulated him into--doing what he did to Thor, who proceeded to beat the trickster god’s influence out of him.  Even with his advanced ability to heal, Steve was still nursing a sore jaw and wounded pride.  He could only assume Bucky saw, because no one had seen him since.

Steve was struggling to stay present.  It seemed he was more likely to turn to his programming when he was in distress, which was why Fury was (not so regrettably) in the hospital.  Other Steve had shot him.  Twice.

And he was still losing time.  

He escaped with Natasha’s help; she got him the door codes to the rest of the facility and out the front door.  But even once he was out, he had no idea where Bucky would go or if he was even capable of tracking him when he couldn't maintain control of his conscious longer than a few hours.

Steve the Nurse was totally unequipped to handle this.  But Asshole Steve, on the other hand--

* * *

 

Bucky could not get drunk, though it wasn’t for lack of trying.  By the time the Two-Headed Pigeon closed, he smelled like he bathed in a whiskey barrel, but he wasn’t even slurring his words.  He was miserably sober.  Bucky wandered the streets of the French Quarter at dawn, kicking beads and plastic cups as he made his way to Jackson Square.

He’d never been here.  As a kid, he’d read things about New Orleans, and it seemed like a good place to get lost.  That’s all he wanted.  Short of killing himself, he could only hope to become--lost.  If he was lost, he couldn’t be abandoned again.

The artists were just starting to set up their displays on the wrought-iron fence.  In a few hours, the square would be filled with music and dancers and magicians.  He had no money, so he sat down on one of the benches and closed his eyes.  Maybe he could catch a few minutes of sleep before the police sent him on his way.  He was so tired…

The bells of St. Louis Cathedral woke him up an hour later.  Bucky was startled to realize that a fortuneteller had set up her table right next to him.  She was a young thing: pale, purple-haired, with thin, delicate wrists protruding from a long black dress.  She noticed Bucky staring and set her cards down.

“You don’t look like the homeless guys who sleep on the benches here.  And you don’t look like a drunken tourist, either.  What are you?”

“I dunno,” he replied.  A mess.  He was a mess.  

She lifted an almost non-existent brow.  Her lips were painted a shade of purple to match her hair.  “Heartbroken is what you are.  It’s plain as day on your face,” she decided.

“Are you really a psychic?” Bucky asked.  Lately, he’d seen more outrageous things.  

“I dunno,” she mimicked, dealing a card from her deck.  It was the Three of Swords: a heart pierced by three different blades.  She laid the next one beside it.  The subtitle on the card was “THE MOON.”  The girl made a considering sound.  “Which of you is insane?  Is it you?  Or perhaps both of you?”

Bucky didn’t answer, but he pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line.  

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I dunno.  I have a lot, I guess,” he said.  

She didn’t seem fazed by his answer.  She continued dealing out cards.  After the seventh card, she seemed to come to a decision and collected the spread back into the deck.  “I’m Betsy,” she finally said.

“You can call me Bucky,” he replied.

She lifted her eyes and smiled.  “You like that name the best.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes.  “You  _ are  _ a psychic,” he grumbled.

“You don’t have to read minds to tell that much.  Your eyes lit up when you said it.  You’re somebody’s Bucky Bear, sure.  Do you know how to read the cards?”

“No, look at me.  I don’t know anything about that gypsy shit,” Bucky replied.  The oblique reference to Steve made him immediately hostile.

Betsy rolled her eyes.  “It’s not Romani, but whatever.  You think you can bullshit some readings?  The city won’t let me keep my table up overnight, so I always lose the best spot in the square unless I’m here at the crack of dawn.  But if you work it overnight so I can keep my spot, I’ll let you sleep and shower at my apartment during the day.”

Bucky shifted on the bench.  “And what do I have to do?”

“Easy!  Tell people what they want to hear.  Unless they’re a dick.  Then you tell them whatever you want and give them their money back, but with some future date on it.  Ominous.”  She waggled her fingers.  “You’ll do great.  You already have the look, or I wouldn’t have asked.”

“You’re pretty brave, asking a man like me into your apartment.”

She snorted.  “You’re gay, for one.  And I can take care of myself.  It’s New Orleans, dude.”   Betsy hauled her worn backpack up onto the table and pulled a notebook from the pocket.  She wrote something down and handed him the sheet.  “Here.  This is my address.  You look beat to hell, so why don’t you take a shower and a nap and meet me back here around ten o’clock?”

“Can I also eat your food?” he asked, beginning to perk up.

“Today.  But after your first night, you buy your own food, got it?”

“Sounds fair,” Bucky replied.  He glanced down at the address and started planning a route.

“By the way, he’s gonna come looking for you, whoever your Bucky Bear is,” Betsy said.  

“Is that a psychic prediction?” Bucky asked with a scoff.  He shoved the paper into the pocket of his filthy jeans.  He missed Steve.  Steve would have made sure that his clothes were clean and his hair was at least brushed.  Bucky was starting to get dirty hippie dreads.  But Steve didn’t care.  He left.

“No, smartass.  I can just tell.  You look like a runaway, just--older.  Someone is going to be looking for you.”

Bucky snorted again.  SHIELD or HYDRA, maybe.  Not Steve.  “I’ll see you at ten,” he replied, and headed down Decatur.  

Betsy lived in one of those second floor apartments on St. Charles.  There were a grand total of four rooms: the living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen.  The furniture looked like it had been scavenged from the streets (not unlike Bucky himself), and the walls exuded a sweaty humidity.  Bucky pushed the bedroom door open and looked at the unmade bed.  There was a psychedelic tapestry pinned above the bed, and the whole room reeked of pot smoke.  God, he hadn’t smelled that since the forties.  This whole city reminded him of that time.  The docks at Brighton Beach where he worked weren’t a hell of a lot different than the docks on the Mississippi.

Bucky went into bathroom.  Glass blocks separated the shower from the toilet.  A window let the morning light in, so after he stripped off his clothes and stepped under the water, it was like taking a shower under a waterfall.  The water around his feet turned brackish as he rinsed the grime from his body.

There was no one to braid his hair when he got out.

He tried to do it himself, but it looked lopsided and uneven.  Still, he was too stubborn to take it out and admit that he needed Steve to do it.  He lay down in Betsy’s bed and pulled the thin sheet over his body.  Bucky was exhausted.  He hadn’t slept since he left the SHIELD headquarters, which was probably why he felt so close to tears.  Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he rocked back and forth for a second to make them stop.  

Why hadn’t he been good enough?

Why hadn’t he been  _ enough? _

 

* * *

 

His first night as a tarot reader went well, all things considered.  Bucky told people what they wanted to hear, like Betsy told him.  If people didn’t like what he told them, they were too intimidated to ask for their money back.  He made about three hundred dollars by the time Betsy came to relieve him.  In his downtime, he read the small, battered booklet that was stuffed inside the box with Betsy’s cards, which told him simple meanings for each of the cards.

This happened night after night until he had a decent stack of cash--but he had no desire to leave.  There was nowhere else he wanted to be.  He got better at reading the cards, and when it was slow, just before the bars let out, he would read his own fate.  It never made any sense to him, even when he used the booklet.

It was around three in the morning and Bucky was contemplating the spread in front of him.  He was looking up the meaning of the Six of Cups when someone sat down in the metal folding chair on the other side of his small table.

“Twenty dollars,” he said without looking up.  A bill was pushed across the tabletop.  Bucky pocketed it and looked up.

It was Steve.

Bucky’s brows came together.  “Go away,” he snapped, looking down at his cards.  He couldn’t leave; someone would take Betsy’s setup.  How had Steve found him?

“I paid my money.  Read my cards,” Steve replied, leaning back in his chair.  Bucky couldn’t tell which personality he was talking to, and he dared not look at Steve’s face to read his expression.  Instead, he shuffled the deck, cut it, and dealt the cards.  He already made up his mind not to read them right, but he was still going to take Steve’s money.  Not that it was actually Steve’s, of course.  It would be Fury’s or someone else’s, part of the bankroll for his mission to bring Bucky back in.

“I see in your past that you were a decent man, hardworking.  You fell in love; how nice for you.  But, oh, what’s this?  Betrayal.  Very ugly,” he said, glancing up with a scowl.

“Buck--”

“Your present: pursual, chase, ultimate failure.  How unfortunate.”

“Bucky--”

“Your future: fuck off, Steve.  I know you don’t even want to be here.  I don’t want you here either.”

“Baby, please, listen!”  Steve reached across the table and took both of Bucky’s wrists.  “It wasn’t me.  If you saw me with Thor, it wasn’t me.  Loki manipulated me--”

Bucky threw him off.  “You’re saying you were brainwashed  _ again?   _ I find that a lot harder to believe than the fact that you just were tired of me!  Whatever happened to ‘it's always me, just a different context’?  And now Fury or HYDRA or whoever wants me to come in, so you got dragged out of your warm bed with your new lover--”

Steve slapped him hard.  “That’s enough!  How dare you even--”  He closed his eyes and shook his head.  “I have been controlling my programming very carefully in order to find you.  Please--it’s been really hard--just hear me out.”

“Get away from me!  Go away!”  Bucky fell back in his chair, his hands cradled uselessly in his lap.  “Please.”

Steve sighed through his nose.  “Fine.  But I’m coming back tomorrow night.”  He got to his feet and then smiled down at him.  “Buck, your hair is a wreck.  I’ll fix it for you when you’re ready.”

Bucky had no choice but to keep reading fortunes until Betsy came back.  She gave him a look as he turned the table over and disappeared into the Quarter without a word. 

As promised, Steve returned the next night, this time with food.  He set the cartons down on the table while Bucky glared at him.  

“You ever had thai food?” Steve asked pleasantly, pulling out two paper plates.

Bucky folded his arms over his chest while Steve served up two dishes and nudged the plate closer to him.  Bucky was hungry--he didn’t eat a lot even though he had stacks of cash--and the savory smells of noodles and spices made his mouth water.  But damned if he was going to eat anything Steve got for him.  Ever since the night before, Bucky had an ache in his chest.  It intensified when Steve was around.

“How's business?” Steve asked.

“You're costing me money,” Bucky replied.

The blond’s smile faltered.  “Oh.  Do you need money?  Where are you living these days?”

“Nice try,” the other man grumbled.

“Are you safe, at least?”

“Yeah.” Bucky pulled the plate a little closer and poked at the noodles.  The ache just wouldn't go away.  

“At least try it,” Steve urged.

Bucky gave in and shoved noodles into his mouth.  It was spicy and rich and fantastic.  He glared at Steve over his plate.  Why did he have to pick something delicious?

“You like it?” Steve asked, cradling his chin in his hand.  He smiled.

“It's fine,” Bucky replied.  “They have you set up at a hotel somewhere?”

“No one sent me, Buck.  In fact, I had to escape SHIELD.  Fury had me on lockdown the moment he realized you were gone.  I--shot him twice.  Natasha helped me out.  Last night, I slept in the waiting room at the hospital.”

Bucky winced.  He hated to think of Steve sleeping in a hard plastic chair, but how did he know that it was the truth?

“You really shot Fury?” Bucky asked.

“Apparently.  The programming kicked in.  Like I said, I've been able to control the shifts a little better, but I had to let him out to find you.  I couldn't do that on my own.”

Bucky continued to eat slowly.  When he finished, Steve took his plate.  “I'll see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“I--I can't stop you,” Bucky sighed.  His anger was gone, but he wasn't going to take him back, either.  What kind of pathetic creature would he be if he did that?

“No, you can't,” Steve laughed.  He leaned across the table and tried to kiss Bucky’s forehead, but the brunet turned his face away.

“Okay,” Steve said softly, obviously hurt.  “Tomorrow, then.”

The next night, he came with flowers.

“I stole these out of a patient’s room,” he laughed.  “I thought you needed them more than that guy.”

Bucky rubbed the petals of a carnation between his thumb and forefinger before leaning in to take in their scent.  “You shouldn't have done that.  They're just going to sit on the kitchen table and die.”

“You don't like them?” Steve asked, sitting down.

“The flowers are fine.  It's you I don't like,” Bucky replied.

Steve dropped his chin to his chest.  Bucky just barely caught him dashing tears away.  That pain in his chest twisted cruelly.

“I told you, it wasn't me who did that.”

“I told you, I don't believe you.”

Steve wrapped his arms around himself and looked toward the lights of the square.

“Did you find a place to stay?” Bucky asked.

“I'm pretty good at sneaking around hospitals,” Steve replied.

The brunet groaned and pulled out his wallet.  He took everything he had and handed it to Steve.  “Go home, Steve.”

The other man considered the stack of cash.  “You won't have anything left.”

“Well, I'm not going back, for one.  And two, I have piles of cash in my apartment.  Just take it and go.”

“I don't have anywhere to go.  You're my home.”

“No, not anymore.  Go, Steve.  Thanks for the flowers,” Bucky said, setting the vase down on the sidewalk beside his feet.  Steve looked at him while he chewed on his lower lip.  Then he grabbed the cash and ran off.

The third night, Steve came with something truly irresistible: chocolate.  Bucky had a terrible sweet tooth, which Steve knew, of course.

“I thought I told you to go away,” Bucky growled, even as he snatched the candy out of his hands.  He started popping the little bonbons in his mouth.  Oh, it was the good stuff, too.

Steve laughed as he watched him eat.  “You did, but I'm not a good listener.  C’mon, baby, let me fix your hair.”

“Okay,” he grudgingly agreed, still chewing on a bit of toffee.  Steve came around the table and pulled a comb from his pocket, like he had prepared for this.  He unpinned Bucky’s bun and started working the comb through the tangles.  He was gentle as ever, his fingers working against his tender scalp.  With the taste of rich chocolate in his mouth and Steve petting his hair, Bucky was in another world.  His eyes fell shut.  Sleeping during the day, alone and in an unfamiliar apartment, had been almost impossible.  Bucky pillowed his head on his arms as he let Steve plait his hair.

“Tired?” Steve asked, dropping one hand to massage his shoulder.

“I don't like sleeping alone.”

“I know you don't, Buck.  Catch anything good on TV?”

“Betsy doesn't have cable.  I miss  _ The Real World.” _ He took another chocolate from the box and let it melt in his mouth.  Steve still hadn't finished, which made Bucky think that he was deliberately wasting time.

“I miss this, baby.  I miss you.  Say I was in my right mind when I kissed Thor.  He still beat the shit out of me.  And I still came for you, doesn't that prove that I didn't abandon you?”

“Why wasn't I enough?” Bucky asked.

“You  _ are _ .  I keep trying to tell you.  I love you and want you more than I have ever loved or wanted anybody.  I wasn't me,” Steve insisted.  

“Thor beat you up?”

“Yeah, apparently, he's not into guys.”

Bucky had to laugh.  

“Please, Buck, this is all a trick.  A misunderstanding.  Let me come home.”  Steve stroked the back of his neck.  Bucky tilted his head and to give him better access.  The blond rubbed the tense muscles of his back and shoulders.  Bucky’s eyes started to water.

“I’m sharing an apartment with a girl, Betsy.  We share the table.  I don’t really have a home,” he answered.

“You have me,” Steve said.  

Bucky hid his face in his arms to hide his oncoming tears.  “You gotta promise me--”

“It’s you.  It’s always been you,” Steve murmured into his ear.  His arms went around Bucky’s neck as he draped himself over his shoulders.  “I promise.”

“How are you controlling Asshole Steve?” he asked.

“It’s a delicate balance,” he mumbled.  “We’re not integrated, but I can call him up and send him away if I concentrate hard enough.”

“That’s something,” Bucky replied.  He was still hiding his face.  

“We don’t need SHIELD and we don’t need HYDRA.  We can make our own way,” Steve said, planting kisses on his ear and cheek.  

“Okay,” the brunet sighed, turning his head slightly so that he could see Steve from the corner of his eye.  

“Okay?” Steve repeated.  “I knew the chocolates would get you back!”

Bucky sat up and grabbed him, digging his knuckles into Steve’s ribs.  Steve shouted and then laughed as he settled himself across Bucky’s thighs.  He looked into the brunet’s bloodshot eyes and stroked his cheek.  He knew he must look just as bad.  “I’m so sorry, baby,” he said.  “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Bucky replied, resting his forehead against Steve’s.  “How easily did you track me down?”

“I guessed,” Steve said, nuzzling his cheek.  “I knew you’d come to a large city, but somewhere that would feel like home.  If you weren’t in New Orleans, I would have kept looking until I found you.  I never would have stopped.”

“I believe you,” he replied.  Steve grasped him by the back of the neck and kissed him.  He was clinging, pushing himself closer, swinging his other leg over Bucky’s hips--until the chair suddenly toppled, sending them backwards onto the sidewalk.  

Steve held onto him even as Bucky picked himself up off the ground.  He dangled from Bucky’s neck like a tie.  Bucky shuffled over to the table, keeping his metal arm across the small of Steve’s back.  “I don’t wanna let go,” the smaller man mumbled into the other’s neck.  

“I gotta stay until Betsy comes to take the table,” Bucky replied, righting the chair.  He sat down with Steve in his lap.  “That’s the deal we have.”

“How about I go get us some food and I’ll hang out here until she comes?” Steve asked.

“Sure,” Bucky replied.  The blond reluctantly got off his lap and ran across the square.  In fact, he practically skipped.  Bucky smiled down at his hands as he set his table back up.  He read the palms of four tourists before Steve returned with a brown paper bag.  Judging from the grease stains on the bottom, it was probably po-boys.  He sat down beside Bucky on the sidewalk and started doling out sandwiches.  

“Thanks, baby,” he said, taking a hot sausage po-boy from Steve’s thin, elegant fingers.  “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

Steve unwrapped his sandwich.  “I dunno for sure.  The other Steve doesn’t exactly have the same regard for human life that I do.  Hell, for all I know, Fury is dead.”

“I wouldn’t be too bummed if he was,” Bucky muttered around a mouthful of bread.

“‘Bummed’?  You’re really catching onto lingo, huh?”  Steve leaned his head against the other man’s thick thigh and quieted when Bucky took another customer.  He smiled to himself while his lover spun beautiful lies for two young women.  After they left, Bucky lightly petted his hair and said, “I like this city.  I don’t want to go.”

“It’s easy to get lost here,” Steve agreed, “and I don’t think anyone would notice a few stray bodies here and there, if we had to make some.”

“I think you’re more integrated than you think,” Bucky said softly, patting his head.  Steve laughed.

When Betsy arrived in the morning, she didn’t seem surprised to see Steve.  She took one of the cold po-boys and sent them on their way.  Bucky took Steve for coffee and beignets at the Cafe du Monde, and Steve just watched him (try to) eat the sugar-covered pastries.  He ended up with powdered sugar on his nose, shirt--everywhere.  Steve made plans to lick it off later.

Bucky was still feeling luke-warm about this whole thing.  He forgave Steve--was even willing to accept that it might have been some kind trick.  But he didn’t trust him yet.  That sort of thing healed slower.

They returned to Betsy’s apartment.  Steve showered.  Bucky was watching an episode of  _ The Jenny Jones Show  _ on the black and white TV in Betsy’s bedroom.  To his credit, Steve just laid down beside him, not touching except for a light hand on the curve of Bucky’s waist.  Soon enough, they were both snoring.

Betsy came in about noon, schlepping the table and setup on her back.  She'd known Steve had come, of course.  Even if she hadn't been one of the most powerful mutants in the world, she could have read it on Bucky’s face.  She knew he wouldn't be staying much longer, either.

Curious, she took a peek into Steve's head.  It was a goddamned mess in there.  Natural thought processes and memories looked, to her, like a web made of delicate threads, and Steve had about three different sets: one that looked normal and organic, one that was like a grid, and thick underlying strands which indicated implanted skills.  She pulled at the second set, violently tearing it out by the roots--not that it had any.  It came away easily and dissipated.  Steve yawned and stretched out on his back.

Betsy turned into Bucky’s head.  It was darker here and tangled, like a young forest.  Because she was something of a meddler, she followed the strands of his memory and dimmed a few of the especially unpleasant ones, like she had been since he came here.  

Pulling back, she folded her arms under her breasts and smiled.  Bucky rolled onto his side toward Steve.  Hopefully that would fix some of their problems.  Betsy knew she shouldn’t go poking around into things that weren’t her business, but she rationalized her actions by noting a man with super-strength and a metal arm couldn’t be normal anyway.  

_ Take that, Jean Grey, you uppity bitch. _

* * *

 

Steve woke and found Bucky staring at him sleepily.  He’d been trying to keep from touching him, but they had curled up around each other anyway.  Steve’s hand was curled in Bucky’s braid, and the brunet’s metal arm was draped over his waist.  “Hey,” Steve mumbled, stretching.  It felt so good to sleep in a bed.  A humid breeze came through the open window, smelling like the earthy waters of the Mississippi.  Bucky was just limned with the light from the streetlamps down below.

“Hey,” he replied.  “Sleep okay?”

“Mm hm,” Steve agreed.

“Which Steve are you?”

Steve thought about it.  “Just Steve.  The other one’s not there.”  His brow furrowed.  “That’s really weird, isn’t it?  Those memories are gone.”

“That’s weird,” Bucky agreed.  He cupped Steve’s cheek and stroked his cheekbone with his thumb.  Steve closed his eyes and leaned into him.  Before he knew it, he was sniffing back tears.  

Bucky sat up and pulled him into his arms.  Steve sat with his thighs on either side of the other man’s waist, his arms around his neck.  “Is this okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, baby, it’s fine.  Don’t cry,” Bucky replied, rubbing his lower back.  “It’s good that you’re just one Steve now.”

“That wasn’t--I was crying because I’m glad to be back with you,” he explained.

“Oh.”  Bucky kissed his ear and ran his hands down Steve’s back.  He pulled his earlobe into his mouth and worried it between his teeth.  Steve released his breath as a sigh and rested his head on the other’s shoulder.  

“Didn’t think you would want to touch me for a while,” Steve breathed, deftly unplaiting Bucky’s hair so that the dark strands slipped through his fingers.  He brushed his lips over the soft spot under the larger man’s ear.  

“Think you’re the only one who got lonely?” Bucky asked.  “Every night I watched guys leaving bars I dreamed about taking you.  Thinking about how you would look in those outfits: little t-shirts, tight jeans.  You ever thought about getting your belly button pierced?”

Steve laughed softly.  “Buck!”

“I just think it’s cute,” he replied, shoving his hands underneath the band of Steve’s underwear.  The smaller man arched against him, his mouth falling open.  He left off toying with Bucky’s hair so he could pull his shirt up over his head.  Steve placed his hand flat against the other’s bare chest as he kissed him.  Bucky parted his lips for him and Steve groaned at the taste of him.  

“I’d get my dick pierced if that’s what you wanted,” he said, lacing his fingers over the back of Bucky’s neck and pulling him down on the bed.  

“No.  The belly button.  It’s just cute,” Bucky replied between kisses.  “Little rings and diamonds against your sweet, white skin.”  He toyed with Steve’s navel with the forefinger of his left hand, smiling down at him.  The fall of his hair created a barrier between them and the rest of the world.

“For the record, I think your gypsy fortunetelling routine is really hot,” Steve said.

It was Bucky’s turn to laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  “Yeah?” he softly replied.  His fingers walked up the other’s abdomen.  Sometimes he looked so young, Steve’s heart could break.  

“Yeah.  Would your friend be okay with--I mean, do you even want to--?”

Bucky’s gaze faltered for a second, just long enough for Steve to get the message.

“It’s okay.  Let’s just make out and watch infomercials,” Steve suggested, sitting up.  Bucky leaned back against the pillows and ran a hand through his hair.  

“I really should be getting dressed so I can meet up with Betsy,” he said.

“No need!” came a voice from the other room.  “We’re taking the night off!”  Betsy appeared in the doorway and pinned Bucky with one of her imperious looks.  “I figured you’d like that.”  

“Thanks,” he replied.

“By the way, you two should think about moving on soon.  Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but there are people after you and I have no wish to be found, either.  You’ll be safe for a little while longer, but they’re coming.”

“Betsy is psychic.  She thinks I don’t know,” Bucky told Steve.

“Huh,” Steve replied, looking at the purple-haired woman curiously.  “Did you fix the other Steve, then?”

“My gift to you,” she answered, shooting a little glare at Bucky.  

“Thank you, I think.”  The blond rubbed his temple.

“I wish people would stay the fuck out of our heads,” Bucky snapped.  He tensed so powerfully Steve was afraid he would actually lash out, so he laid his hand over his wrist.  The brunet gave him a pleading look.  

“He just wants to keep you safe,” Betsy said.  “He couldn’t hurt me anyway.”

“Stay out of it, lady,” Steve growled.  

The woman held both hands up and rolled her eyes.  “Christ,” she groaned, and turned on her heel.  Bucky slowly relaxed as Steve rubbed his back.  

“Where should we go?” the brunet asked him.

Steve quickly made up his mind.  “You like it here, so we’re staying here.  I want a life with you, Bucky, even if it means fighting the entire world for it.”

A smile tugged on the corner of Bucky’s lips.  “I want that too.”

“Then let’s make it happen.  Two guys like us, we can make a decent go of it,” Steve said, enthusiasm rising.  He took Bucky’s hand in both of his and kissed his knuckles.  They were cold against his lips.  “I wanna make a proper gentleman of you.”

Bucky laughed again.  “You offering to marry me?”

Steve lifted his eyes.  “Maybe I am.”

“Then maybe I say ‘yes.’”

The blond launched himself into Bucky’s arms and covered his face with kisses.  “I love you, James Bucky Barnes.  More than anything.”

“I love you too, Stevie.”  He put his arms around him.  “We’ll make it.”

“Of course we will.  Who could stop us?”

* * *

 

Several months later, Nick Fury was acting on intel he received some time ago, but chose to sit on.  Sunglasses were his only disguise as he stared out at the waters of the Mississippi Delta.  There were men working on the docks; there would always be men working on docks.  But only one really interested him.  He wore leather gloves, carpenter jeans, and not a lot else as he loaded crates onto the back of a truck.  The red star shining on his metal arm was a dead giveaway to anyone who knew him.  Jimmy was tan, strong, and looked genuinely happy as he traded insults with the other workers.

While Fury watched, a slender man in scrubs picked his way across the pier towards the fugitive James Barnes.  He was holding a brown paper bag in one hand, but he used the other to grab Jimmy by the waist.  

They kissed briefly before heading towards one of the squat buildings on land.  They looked happy.  Content.  

And he was glad.  If Steve and Bucky didn’t want to be bothered, Fury would make sure they wouldn’t be.  

He owed Jimmy that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
